


Arrogance and Honesty

by septima_sum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, But Not Slow Build, I Realize This Is An Eclectic Variety of Tags, Identity, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, More To Be Added - Wait For It, Murder and Crime, Non-Traditional Gender Roles, Romance, Slow Burn, Themes of Equality and Discrimination, Werewolves Are Not Known
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:15:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9585047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septima_sum/pseuds/septima_sum
Summary: “You like me,” Stiles repeated slowly.Greenberg nodded.“Alright.” Stiles had had this conversation before, and had developed a foolproof system to deals with the alphas who wanted to initiate a proper courtship even after talking to him for a few minutes. “What do you like about me?”Greenberg’s eyes widened in panic as the first thing that shot into his mind was undoubtedly:your dowry.So ample. So plentiful. “Your – your eyes,” Greenberg stuttered. “Are quite striking and remind me of, of – stars. Shining stars.”Stiles wasn’t impressed. “They remind you of globes of fire that float in the vast nothingness of space?”-In which Stiles is tired of being courted and keeps running into Derek Hale, who proves to be exceedingly disinterested in wooing him. A story about reluctant romance and not-so-reluctant empowerment. May feature a series of mysterious crimes.





	1. Sunday, Dreadful Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks go to m fantastic beta-reading team, [docbeeski ](http://docbeeski.tumblr.com/), [tackygoldring](http://tackygoldring.tumblr.com/), and [itsamootpoint](http://itsamootpoint.tumblr.com/). You’ve improved this story in countless ways. I can't thank you enough.

  
  
  
There was nothing on Earth that Stiles dreaded quite as much as the sound of a horse and carriage on a quiet and otherwise peaceful Sunday afternoon.

“Another one?” John asked with a sigh. He was engrossed in his paperwork, of which there was unfortunately plenty to see to when you were the Sheriff of Beacon Hills.

Stiles peered out behind the curtains. The carriage was aiming straight for their house, no doubt about it. “Yes. Another _suitor_.” He made the word sound like a curse unfit for polite company.

“I’ll get the candle,” his father said.

It was common for unwed alphas of a respectable age to pay courtesy visits to unwed omegas, so as to better acquaint themselves with each other and ascertain their compatibility for a possible courtship. Those visits were mostly limited to Sundays, which was coincidentally also the day of the week Stiles was most likely to find himself ill and in dire need of bed rest.

John placed the candle on the table in the sitting room where they received all their guests. “It won’t take long,” he said in an attempt to console his son.

Stiles refrained from smirking and adding, _damned right_. He had personally shortened every candle which fit into the iron candle holder that was so instrumental for the proper visitation etiquette. When the candle had burned to the metal at the top of the holder, it was time for the suitor to take their leave, and Stiles had never met a suitor he hadn’t wished to assist in that endeavor. He suspected he might die of awkwardness or dullness if he actually let the candles burn unhindered and preferred not to take any chances.

The carriage came to a stop in front of their house. Someone disembarked, then steps up to the front porch were to be heard. Finally, a knock interrupted the serenity of their afternoon once and for all. It was a hesitant, soft knock. 

“Be right back,” John murmured and went to get the door.

Stiles strained his ears as introductions were exchanged and had to stifle a groan when he realized that _Greenberg_ was his suitor of the week. Greenberg, of all people! Greenberg, whose charisma was outdone by that of a wet blanket.

With considerable effort, Stiles managed to muster up a pleased-enough smile for the alpha as his father led him into the room.

He returned the little bow Greenberg graced him with as they were formally introduced (even though they knew each other, at least in passing). Greenberg had already shed his coat and left his top hat in the care of the wardrobe. He wore a tux ensemble with a Farnsworth vest and cotton cravat. His Sunday best, most likely.

“It’s my great pleasure to call on you,” Greenberg said. He looked vaguely ill and not at all happy to see Stiles.

“I assure you, Mr. Greenberg, the pleasure is all mine,” Stiles replied and took cover behind his very best fake smile.

The only one who seemed genuinely pleased was Stiles’ father, which was not surprising as he took the little box of chocolates that Greenberg offered with badly hidden glee; Stiles would have to remember to track it down later and snatch it back.

“Would you like some refreshments?” Stiles asked.

Greenberg would, in fact, like some refreshments.

Relieved, Stiles went and made tea for them. He also grabbed a little basket with butter scones on his way to the sitting room. It was always nice to have something to fiddle with when the conversation got awkward, and strategic sips of tea had saved Stiles countless times from blurting out what he really thought.

Once the tea was served and the courting candle lit, the actual conversation could begin to unfold. Stiles hated chit-chatting about the weather and all the other trivialities he was forced to endure. His father sat in the next room, an open door between them, and would be tending to his paperwork – but also listening in on them, at any moment ready to step in should their conversation steer into improper territory. The list of acceptable topics was a short one and Stiles was categorically disinterested in every one of them.

“These are excellent scones,” Greenberg said. “Did you make them yourself?”

“I’m afraid not,” Stiles answered and sipped his tea. “We have a family friend to thank for them, Melissa McCall.”

“I’ve always been very partial to scones,” Greenberg said.

“Me too.”

They talked about the weather at great length, the upcoming Fall Festival, and the books they had read lately. Greenberg liked crime novellas, which was well enough, if a little boring. He was stumped when Stiles shared his own interests, which were eclectic, esoteric and had a touch of the utterly morbid. His latest obsession were medical journals, of which he liked the autopsy reports best.

In Mrs. Blake’s etiquette class, they had learned that one was supposed to shine brightly in the art of conversation, but not _too_ brightly; a distinct but subdued tone was to be cultivated. The goal of polite conversation was not ruffling any feathers, having a good time and preferably never actually getting to know the person you conversed with. There was a good reason for that, and Greenberg demonstrated it when he looked as if he might turn ill as Stiles described the procedure of trepanation. Stiles took pity on him and steered the conversation back to safer shores.

The candle had burned down half of the way when Greenberg cleared his throat, found some shreds of confidence and said, quite solemnly, “Mr. Stilinski, I have a confession to make and I hope you bear me no ill will for stating it outright.”

“That depends on the confession,” Stiles said.

“Well.” Greenberg fidgeted with his hands before pressing his palms flat against his thigh. “I find your company very pleasant and I would like to see you again. Ideally… on a regular basis.” 

There it was.

There it always was.

Stiles wasn’t prone to entertaining illusions about his own character or appeal; he could be abrasive and short-tempered, not to mention a know-it-all, which were qualities nowhere to be found in the ideal picture of the unfailingly accommodating omega. And while he wasn’t unhappy with his appearance per se and subjected to genuine appreciation often enough, he also wasn’t Lydia Martin, who attracted the attention of alphas from seven counties over. His looks were kind of weird and best appreciated at a second glance.

“You like me,” Stiles repeated slowly, measuring the weight of that statement.

Greenberg nodded. He looked queasy and had yet to show signs of actually enjoying the present company. “Indeed. Yes.”

“Alright.” Stiles had had this conversation before, and had developed a foolproof system to deals with the random alphas who wanted to initiate a proper courtship even after talking to him for a few minutes. “What do you like about me?”

Greenberg’s eyes widened in panic as the first thing that shot into his mind was undoubtedly: _your dowry._ So ample. So plentiful. Everyone knew the late Claudia Stilinski had descended from landed gentry in Poland. It had been her dying wish to see the well-being of her only son taken care of and so she’d managed her modest fortune cunningly and left him with enough investments and bonds to ensure he’d never starve. “Your – your eyes,” Greenberg stuttered. “Are quite striking and remind me of, of – stars. Shining stars.”

Stiles wasn’t impressed. “They remind you of globes of fire that float in the vast nothingness of space?”

“Um,” Greenberg answered. He was blushing furiously, and quite possibly even – was that sweat? That appeared to be a drop of sweat right there in the middle of his forehead. “Um,” he repeated.

“I apologize – that was cruel,” Stiles said. “In all earnestness though, what do you like about me? And since physical beauty is passing, what is it about my _character_ that you find pleasing enough to propose a courtship?”

Greenberg stared at him, dumbfounded. His mouth opened and closed once, uselessly, like that of a goldfish. “Uh…”

“It can’t be my gentleness,” Stiles said. “We all know I’m not gentle. Nor can it be my gregarious nature, as I chose my friends with care and great selectivity and am just as likely to converse with my books as with other people. Maybe you like my wit, or my interests in science or the occult – is it that? But no. You don’t like the great unknowns and you don’t take pleasure in trading barbs, even those softened by affection.”

“I…” Greenberg looked horribly uncomfortable.

“In sum, you’re a creature of comfort and I’m anything but.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” his father admonished from the room next door. He was not very strict, as far as fathers went. Mostly he had resigned himself to Stiles’ temperament and merciless wit.

“I apologize for my tone, but I will have to decline your offer – and I think, in time, and perhaps even no time at all, you’ll thank me for that.” Stiles smiled at Greenberg to appease his father and took a sip of tea. The teacup was the one his mother had always favored; dainty and with floral patterns that intertwined like wild ivy. Flustered beyond his limits, Greenberg mirrored his action and also drank tea.

The ticking of the pendulum clock was all of the sudden very loud in the stillness of the room.

Suffice it to say, Greenberg didn’t stay long after that.  
  
  


*

 

“You’d do well to conduct yourself in kindness, young man,” John said afterwards. He gave his son the only look he ever dreaded: concern tinged with disappointment.

“He wasn’t interested in me,” Stiles tried to defend himself. “Not beyond the contents of my wallet, anyway.”

“How would you know? You never gave him a chance.”

Stiles frowned. “He has the appeal of a leftover bowl of oatmeal. Forgive me for not being tempted.”

His father huffed, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “I worry about you, son.”

“I doubt I’m ever going to marry,” Stiles decided. “What for? So I can fumble for conversation topics with the likes of Mr. Greenberg?”

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” his father said. “A good match, like your mother was for me – and I for her – that is something to be cherished.” A raw, pained expression crossed his face. Even after all these years, mentioning his late wife never failed to stir that old hurt.

“I know,” Stiles said. He quickly found himself sobering up. God, it was depressing to think about. None of the suitors that had ever come knocking on their door had done so because they truly liked Stiles, at least in his estimation, not even Theo Raeken, who had been more insistent than most. And the alphas Stiles had been interested in were busy courting other omegas and betas. Deep down, Stiles feared he was fundamentally unfit to be loved.

“Hey now, don’t look so down.” John ruffled his hair. “You have all the time in the world to pick someone you like. And if you don’t want to marry and are happier by yourself, that’s fine by me too.”

Stiles gave his father a grateful smile and hugged him. “Thanks for supporting all of my lifestyle choices.”

“Well, not at _all_ of them,” his father said gruffly. “You should tell me, some time, why you keep jars of alcohol-preserved frogs in the attic.”  
  
  



	2. Uncharming and Ignorant

  
  
  
Stiles was acutely aware that he lagged miles behind.

His best friend since early childhood, Scott McCall, was advancing his courtship with Kira Yukimura so steadily that everyone was expecting an announcement of their engagement any day now (in fact, the local bars had been taking bets as to the timing of the announcement for months). Scott had been unlucky before, as he’d found himself entangled with both Allison Argent and Isaac Lahey and had been reduced to a footnote on their love story after years of an exhausting back-and-forth with them. He deserved every bit of fortune coming his way now, and Stiles would be the first to vouch for the integrity of his character. But it also felt lonely, in a way, to be so left behind.

Vernon Boyd and Erica Reyes had married after a whirlwind of a courtship that had probably broken some long-held records. They had two small daughters and were, as far as Stiles knew, as happy as any married couple could be. He was slightly miffed he’d hardly seen them lately, but he supposed young parents were busy with matters more important than making social calls to unmatched omegas.

Lydia Martin hadn’t yet chosen a hand to accept, but that was no surprise to anyone knowing her and her discerning taste. If she had lived in one of the big cities on the East Coast, cities with social strata actually worth their name, her love life would have been chronicled in the newspapers. Beacon Hills was too much of an idyllic backwater in the middle of nowhere to have much of a true fashionable society, but even so, Lydia’s loveliness was the town’s pride and garnered more than enough interest. She had committed to two serious courtships so far, with Malia Tate and Laura Hale respectively, but both had dissolved in time. Rumor had it she had a new suitor though, a dashing stranger with a sketchy past and an uncertain reputation. It was the kind of juicy gossip fodder that the townsfolk liked best, and Stiles was dying to find out how much of it was true.

And there were no better chances of doing just that than in this very moment, since he was strolling through the market with Lydia. Their arms were linked and their spirits high. Stiles had not been able to claim truly close acquaintance with her in their school years, but they had certainly been amiable with one another in those years, and had developed a close friendship since then.

Wednesday was always market day. Neither Stiles nor Lydia were overly interested in fresh produce or livestock, but that was not all the various markets about town offered. Merchants came from near and far with more interesting commodities, like rich cloths, jewelry, pieces of crafts, magazines and books. There was never a shortage of curiosities to marvel at.

“I think I need a new quilt,” Stiles said as he eyed a booth overflowing with them, hardly able to suppress his glee.

“ _Please_ buy the one with the little cats and balls of wool,” Lydia said snidely and regarded the pale pink monstrosity with shuddering disdain.

“You’re such a snob.”

“It’s called taste, Stiles. Try it some time.”

Stiles grinned, not at all chastened. “It sounds like an affliction I can do without.”

“As you have for all these years, I suppose that’s true.”

“My, my, the claws are _out_ today,” Stiles said. “Can’t you find it in you to treat a friend with a little compassion?”

“Absolutely not,” Lydia replied crisply. “Not when that friend doesn’t find it in himself to have regards for my aesthetic sensibilities.”

“Fair,” Stiles said. “But you have enough for the both of us, I feel.”

“Speaking of those sensibilities…” Lydia nudged him subtly, drawing his attention to the black-clad figure perusing a stack of books at the edge of the market. “Look who’s honoring us with his presence.”

Mr. Derek Alexander Hale.

The Hales were an old and well-regarded family, affluent enough they could have bought half the town had they wished to. The head of the family, Talia Hale, worked in the town council as an advisor to the mayor and was well liked. There were those who said that she exceeded his competence by far and would make an excellent mayor herself, and yet she had never run for a political office; maybe it just wasn’t in her nature. By some curious happenstance, the Hales didn’t live in the well-to-do part of the town but rather in a cluster of houses at the edge of the forest. Stiles had never understood why they kept to themselves so much, and even more curiously, why Erica and Boyd lived with them despite sharing no blood relation.

Still, Beacon Hills was small enough that Stiles had run into most members of the Hale family several times over. In particular he had come to know more about Laura Hale than might be considered appropriate, thanks to her courtship of Lydia. But her younger brother was a little more of an enigma. Mr. Derek Hale was an acquaintance of Scott and someone who couldn’t be overlooked in a crowd. Not with that stiff waistcoat and pristine tailcoat – always dark! – not with that wide angular jaw and those heavy eyebrows, a scowl never far from his features. He was a brooding figure and appeared to be living in some tragic novel of his own making. Stiles was irked that a disposition like his, which naturally should have disinclined any affection or interest in him, only gave him a more of a mysterious allure.

“He cuts a nice figure,” Lydia said appreciatively.

“He does,” Stiles agreed. There was no denying it, for Mr. Hale always cut a nice figure and might have featured in one or two of his favorite late-night musings. “But he seems so stern and forbidding, positively grumpy. Can you imagine what it’d be like to wake up next to that face?”

“ _Oh yes_ ,” Lydia said and smirked quite unladylike. “Very clearly.”

Stiles nudged her side. “Not what I meant, as you well know. I imagine it would be like being married to a curmudgeon. Dry, without warmth or passion, bereft of faintest idea what you could possibly talk about. The afternoons would stretch into all eternity and most likely you’d die of boredom rather than old age.” 

In that very moment, Mr. Hale turned around and looked into their direction; he made instant, unswerving eye contact with them. Stiles felt uncovered and exposed at once. For one mad second he had the impression that Mr. Hale had heard every one of his snide remarks and was judging him harshly for it. But no, not possible. Not with the loud and bustling market between them, and Stiles was ridiculous for even entertaining that notion.

And yet.

The way Mr. Hale broke eye contact, with a more-sullen-than-usual slant to his jaw, and turned on his heel forcefully and abruptly, seemed like an ill-timed coincidence.

“Hm.” Lydia pursed her lips. “You’re a quick judge.”

“You know me. Patience isn’t my virtue.” Stiles shrugged, but if that was an effort to shake off feeling like a gossip-monger caught in the act, it failed miserably. He felt as if he’d been stung to the core by Mr. Hale’s affronted glare. Eager to distract himself, he told Lydia, “I have a bone to pick with you.”

One of Lydia’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose a fraction. “What for?”

“You’ve been quite miserly lately.”

“ _Me?_ ” Lydia asked in alarm and disbelief.

“Indeed,” Stiles said and laughed quietly. “As your friend, it’s only natural I share your good fortune.”

“Oh,” Lydia said and gave him a sly look.

“Tell me about Ms. Braeden Oliveira. You’ve set tongues wagging, you know.”

Lydia ducked her head to hide a smile she seemed unable to quite control. She seemed pleased with herself, giddy like a little girl. It was a marvelous sight, and not one Stiles could recall ever having seen before.

“She’s… intriguing,” Lydia said cautiously, as if she didn’t want to mar her feelings by translating them into insufficient words.

“That’s high praise, coming from you.”

“Indeed. She makes me feel both safe and as if I’m on the brink of an adventure not yet written, an unseen world.”

“That sounds perfect,” Stiles said and smiled at his friend affectionately. “What does she do for a living?”

“Can you keep a secret?” Lydia asked.

“For you? Always.”

“Well.” Lydia looked around, making sure they weren’t overheard. “She’s a bounty hunter.”

“A what now?” Stiles’ eyes grew big. “Really?”

“She’s been traveling across the country and to even farther frontiers, tracking people that others have an incentive to find. Delinquents, debtors and gamblers, but also heirs, missing relatives and the like. She’s been teaching me how to use her rifle and throwing knives.”

Stiles nearly died of jealousy then and there. “You ought to marry her immediately!”

“You know what? I think I will.” Lydia laughed, a sound as bright and happy as a silver bell.

Stiles hesitated. “But aren’t you worried your reputation is going to be suffer by association?” he asked. “Bounty hunting isn’t the most reputable or steady business.”

“No,” Lydia said decisively, and true to her word she appeared entirely untroubled. “Anyone I marry will have a stellar reputation by default.”

Stiles laughed more loudly than could be considered appropriate for polite company. “I think I should marry you, then. Would save me a lot of trouble.”

“Oh honey,” Lydia said with a patronizing look. “Even I couldn’t save you from that.”  
  
  


*

 

There was no doubt in Stiles’ mind that Lydia had assessed the situation correctly.

The proof: his notebooks, which were a mess of scribbled lines. Drawings of dissected frogs, painstakingly labeled and commented. Essays on the course of the stars. The history of copper mining was analyzed with equal care to the reproductive habits of a parasitic wasp breed he’d discovered in the garden. He saw fit to educate himself on a wide span of subjects, although what for he couldn’t have said. It was a cause of endless sorrow that his inquisitiveness was mostly met with apathy. 

Society at large thought it a folly to open the professions to omegas, with exceptions few and far between. Stiles had been a teacher at the local school for a while until a fellow teacher, Mr. Harris, had raised alarm about his single status and moral example or lack thereof, at which point he had been gently but firmly ousted until his status changed for the better. Stiles had been at the verge of reading them the riot act – it was the thick hypocrisy he couldn’t stand, the way they referred to morality as if the principal wasn’t a habitual drunkard or Mr. Harris didn’t take excessive pleasure in disciplining his students with a cane. But in the end, he’d accepted his lot. Biting his tongue had been infuriating, but if it meant he could return to teaching one day, it would have been well worth it.

And there was a silver lining, however faint: lately Alan Deaton had been kind enough to humor Stiles’ eclectic interests. The doctor’s library was one of the best-stocked in the entire state, and Stiles had been invited to borrow whatever book he liked. It was a breathtaking privilege, especially given that he hardly knew the good doctor.

Deaton had sensed his confusion. He’d inclined his head and said that he saw a great deal of _potential_ in Stiles. “We natural scientists have to support each other, don’t we?” he’d said with an enigmatic smile. “And besides, any friend of Mr. McCall is a friend of mine as well.”

Whether that was true or not, Stiles wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He was currently engrossed in the biographical account of a botanist who’d searched for rare plants in the West Indies, having made himself comfortable in the attic, when John knocked on the door and entered.

“A letter has arrived for you,” he said, and just by the tone Stiles could tell it was by no means an ordinary letter. The thick, creamy envelope with Scott’s handwriting in red ink could only mean one thing. 

Stiles ripped it open impatiently.

_Mr. Scott McCall and Ms. Kira Yukimura announce their engagement and request the pleasure of your company at eight o’clock on Saturday the fifteenth of September._

At the bottom of the page, Scott had scribbled: _I did it! I did it! I proposed! And Kira was fool enough to SAY YES! I’m the happiest man on Earth!_

Stiles laughed. “By god, he did it!”

“He’s engaged?” John looked disappointed. “Damn. I lost that bet. I thought he would ask around Christmas.”

Stiles snorted. “That should teach you not to gamble on other people’s happiness.”

“Especially when my own son wouldn’t even tip me off,” his father said with a reproving look.

“First off, even I wasn’t aware!” Stiles defended himself. “Second, you’re well acquainted with Melissa and meet her frequently! What do the two of you talk about if not your sons’ happiness and prospects in life?”

For a moment, John appeared too flustered to answer. “That’s none of your business,” he said finally.

If Sitles wasn’t entirely mistaken, there would be another announcement of a McCall engagement in their future. He grinned to himself as he watched his father flee the room under a flimsy pretext.  
  
  


*

 

The engagement dinner was held at the townhouse of Kira’s parents, who were wealthy merchants dealing in arts and books from the Far East, having established trade connections from Indochina to the Korean peninsula. It was an elegant house. The walls were lined with bookshelves of polished rosewood, so dark it was nearly black, and free spaces were adorned with framed Chinese silk tapestries. Countless candles were lit, like the candelabra on the mantelpiece in front of the trumeau mirror, but none was as great as the chandelier above the dinner table. The golden glow of its candles was reflected manifold in the crystal glasses and polished cutlery under it. On each gold-rimmed plate, napkins of red cloth were folded in the shape of lotus flowers.

Everyone was wearing their best, which meant petticoats or tailcoats for the ladies (depending on their orientation and personal taste), and tailcoats for the gentlemen. As a male omega, Stiles was allowed more gaiety in his dress choices than men of other orientations, who kept to the duller end of the color spectrum. To Lydia’s endless consternation, Stiles rarely took advantage of this liberty however. He was wearing a light grey suit ensemble this evening; nothing extraordinarily eye-catching, although the fabric was of great quality and tailored to his form. 

The engagement dinner was a cheerful affair, and Scott and Kira could take most of the responsibility for that. Arms linked, they radiated happiness. Stiles was delighted to note that Erica and Boyd were there, as were Danny and Ethan. Of course, Lydia was also present – spectacularly dressed in the latest fashion from New York, she traded barbs with Braeden that were so pointed and suggestive they were best considered public foreplay. The only disappointment was the presence of Derek Hale.

After that strange semi-encounter at the market, Stiles had been eager to avoid his company. No such luck. The party was too small to avoid him comfortably, and when they seated themselves at the dinner table, Stiles ended up sitting exactly opposite of Hale.

Well. Awkward.

Hale was dressed in an immaculate but severe tailcoat and seemed as discontent as ever. He looked as if he suffered through the indignity of having permanently wet socks. At least that's what Stiles liked to assume his problem was; who knew or cared whether Hale's grievances were really that trivial. Ever the coward, Stiles fled into conversation with his neighbor to the right.

“Fatherhood has been treating you well,” he told Boyd, who indeed seemed happier than Stiles ever remembered him seeing; it was in the way he held his shoulders and in the corners of his eyes.

“No, you’re wrong about that! The night off is to blame for my good mood,” Boyd said and laughed, clinking glasses with Stiles. “To a night off.”

“How are the little ones?”

“They’re… rambunctious. That’s the politest way I can put it.”

“With that he means they’re complete rantipoles,” Erica chipped in from two chairs over. “They are shaving years off our lives.”

Delighted, Stiles let himself be updated on Boyd’s and Erica’s family adventures. “It’s so good to hear from you! I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“I know, we’ve hardly left the house,” Boyd said and sighed. “It’s not likely to change soon either.”

“I understand that,” Stiles said earnestly and aimed his best puppy dog eyes on Boyd – they were effective enough, although in all fairness not half as good as Scott’s. 

Boyd hesitated. Then he caught Erica’s eyes and seemed to decide something. “Well… you could come by and visit us sometime.”

“I would love that!” Stiles said. “That would be fantastic.”

And so they decided to get together soon.

Not long after that agreement, Boyd drifted into another conversation. Stiles welcomed the opportunity to dig into the delicious food that threatened to spill from his plate; roasted turkey with herbs and citrus butter, whipped sweet potatoes, and honey-glazed carrots. With half an ear, he listened to Hale’s and Oliveira’s conversation.

They were talking about his job and some of the challenges that had arisen with a new legal decree. Hale called it ‘long overdue’ and claimed its effects would prove to be a ‘thrilling challenge’.

He worked as a notary, which was a respectable profession, but sounded dull as dishwater to Stiles. Watching people sign documents for a living – no, thank you. Not the fabric of his dreams, and certainly not ‘thrilling’ in any capacity. Stiles ducked his head to hide his derisive little smirk. 

Only to find Hale’s eyes firmly fixed on him when he looked up again.

Curses. 

“Anything the matter?” Hale asked. 

Stiles coughed slightly. “No?”

“You probably think my profession is _lackluster_ ,” Hale said, his voice low. “Am I correct?”

“What? No!” Stiles exclaimed, feeling mortified. “Absolutely not. I’m sure there are many… exciting moments to be had in your line of work.” If he’d been prone to blushing, his cheeks would have caught fire by now.

Mr. Hale’s eyes narrowed in disdain. It was entirely possible that he underestimated Stiles’ aptitude for awkwardness and thought he was being made fun of, deliberately and cruelly. “As a matter of fact, there are many _exciting moments_. It’s a job with a wide range of responsibilities.” He cut his turkey with precise movements and ate a bite. “I’ve been trusted by many to act as a witness and confidante as they dealt with some of the most difficult moments of their life. You learn a lot about human nature if you’re ever present while someone makes their will, or present when the heirs come to collect what’s theirs. Or in fact, isn’t. And that’s just one example.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, feeling thoroughly chastened. “That does sound well worthwhile.”

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Hale’s features before being snuffed out by a grim expression once more. “Which is precisely the reason why I pursue this profession.”

They were silent for a while, although it was far from quiet – the clinking of cutlery and animate conversations all around them made sure of that. By contrast their silence seemed even more pronounced and uncomfortable. At the end of the table, Scott looked up and gave him a questioning look. Stiles smiled faintly at him. He was fine. This was absolutely fine. Fate had seen fit to throw Hale and him together, and Stiles was a fool who didn’t know what was good for him, so he soldiered on. Surely even a strained conversation was preferable to suffering in silence. “Are you fond of reading, Mr. Hale?”

“I am.”

Stiles waited for the alpha to elaborate. He didn’t. “Personally, I like all kind of genres,” he said, “but I’m particularly partial to scientific works and have even read some that veer into the occult. But that’s alright with me. As Shakespeare said, there are more things in heaven and earth than one can possibly dream of.”

Hale appeared startled. “The _occult_?” 

“It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, I agree,” Stiles said, “but that area so interesting! The knowledge of hidden things! What’s not to like about that? I found the most fascinating book in Deaton’s library recently, written by a botanist who believed that certain plants have magical properties and might prolong one’s life span. Incredible, isn’t it?”

Hale seemed uncomfortable. “I’m not sure I can stretch my imagination that far. Deaton, you said? Doctor Deaton?”

Stiles nodded. “The one and only. He has graciously given me access to his private library.”

Hale seemed bewildered and irritated. “ _Really?_ He has?”

The _why_ remained unspoken but couldn’t have been implied in a more pointed manner. Even though Stiles had asked himself the very same question and had been equally confused – or maybe exactly because that was the case – the bewilderment rankled him. “My interests run deep and far,” he defended himself. He hated that he sounded petulant. “Dr. Deaton said he found a kindred spirit in me.”

“I see,” Hale said and quickly suppressed a grimace. 

What the hell.

The nerve! The audacity! What did Hale even know about him?

Maybe the crux was that Hale didn’t believe he _needed_ to know anything about Stiles. Maybe he just saw omegas as temperamentally unfit for the natural sciences and beyond, flat out and wholeheartedly, as so many others did. 

“You evidently don’t agree?” Stiles said and shoved a forkful of sweet potatoes into his mouth. He hated when people looked down on him and treated his intellect like a droll, mildly amusing curiosity. 

“I would never question Dr. Deaton’s judgment,” Hale said and smiled at Stiles without any overt warmth. “Although I think an interest in natural and unnatural phenomena should be accompanied by an open mind, particularly the propensity to judge a situation only after one has all the facts.”

“ _When_ have I _ever_ not done that?” Stiles asked, his voice sliding a register higher. 

Hale shrugged. “You’re quick to judge people.”

Stiles was beginning to sense a _theme,_ and he didn’t like it one bit. First his father had accused him of not having an open mind, then Lydia, and now _Hale_ of all people. “How would you know that? We’ve hardly ever spoken! And besides, if you’re saying I’m quick to judge – isn’t that a judgment in itself? Isn’t that you being exceedingly judgmental?”

“That’s not how it works,” Hale said. “Clearly, your argument is a fallacy.” 

“I’m very open-minded,” Stiles retorted angrily. “Would I be engaged in a conversation with you otherwise, knowing what I do about your reputation as a misanthropic grouch?”

And that, as the saying went, was that.

Hale looked as if he’d been struck by lightning and had to bite back – under great effort – an even more caustic reply. For the rest of the evening they didn’t exchange a single word.

There were three things in life that never came back: the spent arrow, the spoken word, and the lost opportunity.

Stiles had the feeling all three events had coincided, but whatever remorse he felt for his actions was _dwarfed_ by the white-hot indignation for Hale’s.  
  
  


*

 

When he talked to Scott two days later, he still hadn’t cooled down.

“What a terribly conceited – self-important – presumptuous – insolent – individual!” Stiles fumed.

Scott snorted quietly.

“You think that’s _funny_?” Stiles asked.

“Yes, absolutely,” his friend said in good humor. He sighed when he saw Stiles’ stormy expression and clapped him on his back. “It’s just that that’s exactly the same thing that Derek said about you. Word for word.”

Stiles gaped like a goldfish who’d been thrown on land. “He did _not_!”

Proving to be a terrible friend, Scott giggled. “Sorry, pal. He absolutely did.”  
  
  



	3. A Flower Blooming in Adversity

  
  
  


Stiles swore when he heard – and then, peeking through the window, saw – the carriage arrive. He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat. That couldn’t be! He was about to visit Boyd and Erica and had notified a carriage service that would bring him to their house, but that was decidedly _not_ the time they had agreed on.

He opened the door to the coachman, who gave a curt bow and introduced himself as, “Garrison Meyers – at your service.” He had the ruddy face of someone who worked out in the open all day, exposed to the elements.

Stiles returned the bow swiftly. “You’re more than an hour early!”

“So? I’m not waiting on you, boy.” Meyers snorted derisively. “I’ve got a busy schedule. Either get in there or don’t and see where that leaves you.”

Stiles subjected him to an affronted, flinty stare, but knew he had precious few options and so climbed into the carriage nonetheless. It was not like he could saddle a horse and ride to his friends himself. There were strict rules for how, when and where omegas could be out and about if they wished to preserve their reputation and dignity. Stiles might not care about those rules too deeply, but out of respect for his father he didn’t defy them openly either. After all, his father was an elected official and judged on how well he kept his house in order almost as much as on his actual work.

None of these thoughts appeased him, however, and so Stiles stewed in his frustration and glared daggers at the back of Meyer’s head. He comforted himself with the observation that Meyers had the disposition and brainpan of a stagecoach tilter. Phrenologically speaking.

At least it was a mild fall day and the carriage was open, which meant he could enjoy the countryside without obstruction. Stiles got out rarely and cherished every opportunity that presented itself. He watched the wind weave through the last grain of the year, tousling the stalks like a loving hand caressing a head of hair. The foliage was only just beginning to turn golden and the sky was a deep cerulean. Just in case Stiles came across something interesting or had a fleeting thought he wanted to pin down to revisit later, he had his leather-bound notebook with him. By now that was a deep-set habit. 

It took them the better part of an hour to reach the secluded forest area where Boyd and Erica lived. His friends lived in direct proximity to the Hale family, at the foot of a great forest, where giants of trees reached into the sky like looming pillars. It was an enchanting area whose wilderness had not yet been tamed and seemed both idyllic and faintly forbidding.

The Hales were such a numerous and well-off family that they didn’t live in one house all together, not even the estate where Talia and her closest family resided. From his vantage point, Stiles could see a couple of houses that he knew must belong to them. And it was not just houses, either. They had fields of their own, and while they might not be as large of those of the local farmers, they were of a great variety. Stiles could also see pastures where cows and sheep were grazing, a couple of smaller orchards and some buildings that were probably stables. Glimpses of chickens and geese could be seen here and there, their soft clucking and gaggling betraying where they were scurrying through high grass.

The Hales appeared to be living in their own little world. It reminded Stiles of the oil paintings that Lydia so derided as the gauche imaginings of small minds.

It was beautiful.

Erica and Boyd’s house was situated on the edge of the clustering and looked relatively simple but robust and well-tended. It was a merry sight with its flower pots and the colorful lanterns that spanned the entire porch. Once the carriage came to a halt, Stiles paid Meyers the sum the owed him. He straightened his coat as he went over to the door. He knocked once; only silence answered him. He knocked once more to the same result. Stiles sighed. Well, that was his penalty for being the kind of ungracious guest who showed up too early. He was unsure what to do, then – until he heard a commotion; the sound of stomping feet and children laughing.

Stiles followed the racket and walked around the house, into the spacious backyard. He had to walk around a couple of man-high hedges until he found the source of it all.

And then he _froze_ on the spot.

Because there was Mr. Hale, in the company of four excited children.

“Rawrr, I’m gonna devour you! Scramble, you brats!” Hale yelled.

The children screeched in delight and ran in all directions, while Hale growled – honest to god, _growled_ \- and chased after them.

Thunderstruck, Stiles watched the scene in front of him. This was not Mr. Hale – not as he knew him. Instead of his usual tailcoat get-up, the alpha wore brown pants and a linen shirt that fell loosely around his solid frame. Sturdy clothing made for physical labor, not likely to tear quickly or be ruined by a few stray flecks of dirt. Stiles forgot his grievances with Hale for a moment, all those times he’d ranted about his shortcomings to his increasingly amused father. Everything fell from his mind, like a trap door had swung open suddenly and without warning.

Stiles watched as the little horde of children banded together and tackled Hale, toppling him over. Hale fell to the ground with a dramatic flourish and was promptly overwhelmed by the kids. “That tickles! Stop! Stop, you little fiends! I surrender!” Hale yelled and laughed loudly, throwing his head back. The mirth transformed his face in ways Stiles hadn’t thought possible. Sure, Hale was handsome even when he felt ill done by and lamented his lot in life, but his _smile_ – _dear god_. It was disarming and infectious. It reminded Stiles of the sun peeking out behind the clouds after a rainy day. It seemed you automatically turned to it, like a blossom opening its petal in the brightness, whether you wished to or not.

Nonetheless, the children all ignored Hale’s pleas for mercy and climbed all over him in their quest for victory. They were a rambunctious sort, Boyd hadn’t exaggerated that. Stiles raised his eyebrows when one of them actually _bit_ Hale’s ankle with undue abandon.

This was by coincidence exactly when Hale looked in his direction and became aware of Stiles’ presence. He went shock still. Under other circumstances, the abrupt change in his demeanor would have been comical, the way he tensed up and all levity evaporated. But not now. Stiles was sorry to see Hale’s smile wiped off his face and a grim expression settle into its place once more. 

The children ceased their uncoordinated attack and turned to look at Stiles as well. Even the one biting his ankle stopped, mercifully, although she looked ready to bite again if given the smallest incentive.

Stiles didn’t know what to say, being thrust so suddenly into the center of attention. “What a terrifying little horde of beasts you are,” he finally said to the children. “I could swear you were raised by wolves!” He hoped to win them over with a conspiring smile.

The children giggled and seemed delighted, as they well should be, but Hale’s mouth fell open in shocked indignation.

“It was only supposed to be a joke,” Stiles said lamely. “I wasn’t trying to disparage anyone’s fitness as a parent.”

“I see,” Hale said.

Gently, the alpha set the children down, one by one, and freed himself. He got up and brushed some dirt off his pants. “Mr. Stilinski.” The stiff, formal bow was strikingly at odds with his disheveled appearance, from his unruly hair to the loose shirt that exposed a strong shoulder and was cut low enough to reveal that Hale’s chest was lightly peppered with black hair.

Mortified, Stiles bowed as well and returned the greeting. “Mr. Hale.” On any other day he’d probably been amused by the scene he’d witnessed, but he only felt unsettled now. He’d been so sure he knew Hale’s exact measure, and yet that picture in his mind did not fit over the one Hale had so unwittingly presented him just now. “I’m here to see Boyd and Erica,” Stiles stammered, “I’m too early though, much too early, as there was an issue with the coachman...” He trailed off.

“I see,” Hale said again. His eyes were a stormy grey-green that reminded Stiles of paintings of the sea. Which was fitting, as Stiles felt like he sat in a walnut of a boat and was completely and utterly at the mercy of the forces of nature, adrift with something beyond his control.

“This is so boring,” one of the children complained. “Uncle Derek, you promised us that we could play hunt-the-beast!”

“Not now, sweetheart,” he consoled her.

Grumbling, the girl took off. She appeared to be the leader of the group, for the other children followed swift and abandoned Stiles to the fate of conversing with Mr. Hale all by himself.

As much as it pained him, Stiles felt that there only path he could follow. Curse Scott with his damned puppy eyes and antiquated understanding of morality! “This may not be the right time or place, but I feel an apology may be in order.”

Hale tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. “Because you called me a misantrophic grouch in the middle of a dinner party?”

No dancing around the issue. Well. That was an admirable quality.

“Yes,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry you were offended so thoroughly. I believe my remark may have been out of order.”

“ _May_?” Hale asked. His thick caterpillar eyebrows creeped towards one another in incredulity.

Stiles was beginning to regret that he’d extended the olive branch. What a vexing individual this alpha was! Any generosity of spirit appeared to be lost on him! “You did your part to stoke my agitation,” Stiles pointed out. He gave him the chance to offer an apology in return, but the ensuing silence was deafening.

“Anything I said was proportionate to your actions,” Hale said after a few beats.

“Come again? I didn’t _do_ anything!”

“Perhaps not, but…” Hale huffed. “You come across as someone with a very _belittling_ attitude.”

Stiles felt his pulse quickening in anger. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I can assure you you’re painting the wrong picture. I’m not the snob you think I am."

“This is also Mr. McCall’s conviction...” Hale looked pained as he came to a conclusion. “Alright. I accept your apology.”

“You know what?” Stiles replied. “Don’t! As of this moment, I retract my apology! It’s not valid anymore!”

“Too late. I already accepted it.”

“Then I implore you to un-accept it!” Stiles replied, nearly yelling.

“You can’t implore me to do anything,” Hale said with infuriating smugness. “Especially not to forget your admission of guilt.”

“Don’t force my hand – don’t make me offend you again so that we’re even once more!”

“Your entire existence is already offensive to me.” Hale sneered. “No need to exert yourself.”

For a moment, Stiles was lost for words. This went beyond irritating and straight into _hurtful_ territory. He wasn’t prepared for how much it pained him to hear Hale say those words.

The alpha seemed contrite as he registered Stiles’ words. “I’m sorry if you were offended,” he said.

Or maybe not.

“Forget about that,” Stiles said. “And just for the record, your existence is double as offensive to me as mine is to you.”

Hale honest-to-God rolled his eyes; their conduct was embarrassing for the both of them. “I believe our little discussion leads nowhere, Mr. Stilinski. You’re here to visit Erica and Boyd, are you not? Let me see if I can find them for you so you won’t have to wait on them any longer.”

“I would be beyond grateful,” Stiles spat out.

And so Hale went looking for the young couple and left Stiles to stew in his anger. It was exasperating: why were they so incapable of having a decent, normal conversation? What was it about them? They were like poles of the wrong end, pushed together and repulsing each other.

In any case, Stiles regretted that he had extended an apology. He had every reason to feel _scorn_ for Hale, after all – the alpha had been very _belittling_ himself when Stiles had told him about his interests and Deaton’s support of them. Stiles had been noble in trying to mend their differences, and yet Hale hadn’t found it in himself to be a little more civil.

He was a lost cause, Stiles concluded. Taking a deep, centering breath, he decided that the encounter would _not_ ruin his visit.  
  
  


*

  
  


Boyd and Erica had been at Talia’s house to get some fresh whipped cream. Stiles apologized profusely for his untimely appearance, but his request for forgiveness was waved aside. Two of the kids who had attacked Derek were theirs, Rosalie and Adaline, and with their braided hair done up in various pigtails they looked cute as pie, with cheeks that begged to be pinched. If Stiles hadn’t seen their more savage sides only moments ago, they would have easily fooled them with their angelic appearance.

“This is uncle Stiles,” Erica introduced him. “Do you remember him?”

The last time he’d seen the girls, they’d been barely capable of crawling – and now they were already running around! Time really did fly by.

Rosalie shook her head and hid behind Erica.

Stiles crouched down at their level. “There’s no need to be afraid of me.” He made funny faces at them and was rewarded with a round of giggles. “I actually brought something for you,” he said and retrieved a little parcel from the pocket of his coat. It contained a colorful variety of hard candy he’d gotten at the local candy store, The Sweet Tooth, with flavors like peppermint, lemon, wintergreen, lavender, orange, and – his favorite! – horehound. He gave it to Erica, who seemed delighted. “Oh, I love those!” To her daughters, she said, “you’ll get to try them after dinner, sweethearts.”

Erica and Boyd’s house was spacious and had a coziness to it that made Stiles feel right at home. There were no excessive luxuries, but everything appeared to be of a good quality, durable and well-made. Wood was the dominating material, as evidenced by the wooden walls and floors, the wooden shelves, chairs and the large oak table in front of the fireplace. Vases overspilling with wild flowers were placed on the windowsills and a line of polished, gleaming cookware hang above the iron cast stove. Most interestingly, a pair of enormous deer antlers were mounted above the fireplace. Stiles tried to imagine what kind of beast would have crowned its head with those.

“Do you hunt yourself?” Stiles asked them. “I suppose there’s a lot of game here.”

Erica laughed a little. “Oh yes, we do.” She gave Boyd a wicked look Stiles couldn’t quite interpret, a delighted smile with far too many teeth. 

Those two had always had insider jokes, even all those years back when they had all gone to the same school.

Erica had been a mousy and withdrawn thing in those days, not likely to turn heads or make fast friends; she’d been plagued by a malady of the nerves that no one had seemed able to cure. And then, years ago… it was as if a veil had been lifted by magical hands. She’d been the very picture of health since then, as hale and hearty as anyone could be. Stiles still remembered the judge’s wife, Mrs. Buskirk, saying with dewy eyes that someone had prayed long and hard enough, and that wonders did happen. Sometimes.

Boyd had been similarly withdrawn in school, although he had seemed to choose solitude out of his own volition. Most students had respected that, unwilling to risk his ire, as Boyd could hold his own both physically and verbally. Stiles had been the target of his sarcastic remarks one or two times and could verify that they hit the bullseye like darts. Since Boyd had gotten involved with Erica, however, he had slowly thawed and let other people into his life. Erica was loud where Boyd treaded softly, and he was contemplative where she charged ahead; they harmonized perfectly.

After humoring the children for a while, they sat down at the big oak table near the fireplace. Erica served slices of pumpkin pie that were nearly burrowed under big dollops of whipped cream. Stiles ate with appetite and only barely refrained from licking the plate clean when he was finished. “You grow the pumpkins yourselves, don’t you?”

Boyd shook his head. “No, those are Peter’s. He’s got a knack for everything green.”

Stiles learned that there was a lively trade between the members of the Hale family. Erica and Boyd worked for them – in a fashion. It would be more accurate to say that everyone worked for the well-being of the family, Erica and Boyd included. Some of the Hales practiced professions that took them to Beacon Hills each day, like Talia or Derek Hale, but many others were working on the family properties, busy tending to the crops and fields, hunting and fishing, cleaning and washing, baking and cooking, to name to name only a few activities. The Hale family seemed self-sufficient to a considerable degree, which was quite the feat given its size. Stiles quickly understood that there was never a shortage for work. Minding the children alone was a great undertaking, since all of them were home schooled. 

The only thing Stiles still didn’t understand was how Boyd and Erica’s involvement had come about. As far as he could tell they were the only ones without any blood or marital relations to the Hales.

Erica seemed to sense his latent surprise. “It feels like we’ve been adopted into a Scottish clan.” She laughed. “It’s nice. We never lack for company. If we’re in mind for a shared dinner, we can always head over and be assured that we’re welcome. We help with the work wherever we can – everyone does that to the best of their abilities – and together we manage just fine.”

“Sounds like a good life,” Stiles said. If you liked the Hales, that was. That was certainly a prerequisite.

After a little pause, Erica asked, “You had a disagreement with Derek at the engagement dinner, right?”

Stiles felt sheepish. “I can't deny that.”

“He’s a good man, you know,” Boyd said. 

Unbidden, an image from earlier sprung into Stiles’ mind – Hale in the garden, disheveled, those stormy pale eyes trained on Stiles. He pushed it aside forcefully. “I’m sure he is,” Stiles said. He found Hale agreeable so long as the alpha didn’t open his mouth. That was the always point where the trouble started. 

“You might have started off on the wrong foot,” Erica said. “It happens.”

“There was no start of _any_ kind,” Stiles said curtly and looked away to hide how distasteful he found the notion. 

And then his wandering gaze noticed it.

A dried blossom on the windowsill, next to the vase overflowing with wild flowers of all kinds.

Shocked, he got up and went over to the window. He picked the blossom up with an air of dazed incredulity. It was thinner than gossamer and soft as cotton. Its coloring was mostly white, but fine black lines ran from the center of the blossom to its pointed petals, which were also dotted with black points. How beautiful the blossom must have looked in its full glory, with sap still running through it.

_Ivegon._

One of the plants described in Deaton’s books and purportedly entirely mythical. And yet – here it was! Wispy like a spider’s web, but still solid enough. Not the figment of anyone’s dreams. 

“Where did you find this flower?” he asked as he turned to Erica and Boyd.

Erica frowned. “That one? In the forest.”

“They’re quite pleasing to look at, aren’t they?” Boyd said. “And they smell a little like jasmine. One day I gathered two hands full of their blossoms and made Erica a crown of them.” He smiled at his wife with great fondness. “I bring one or two home whenever I come upon them.”

Erica returned her husband’s smile, soft like butter melting on warm bread; secret affection meant only for one person.

For a moment, Stiles felt quietly embarrassed to be privy to such a private moment, happy as he was for his friends. Then Erica asked him, “why are you so interested in them?”

Stiles shrugged. “I’ve taken up botany as a hobby.”

He said it so drily that Erica huffed a little laugh; when she realized that he was being quite serious, she angled her head like a dog who’d stumbled upon a riddle.

“Tell me where you found them,” Stiles asked of them. He hoped he didn’t sound as eager as he felt; the little discovery had positively lit him ablaze. What if the book was right about the flowers’ magical propensities? What if the book was right about _everything?_

“Deep in the woods,” Boyd said slowly.

“How deep? In which direction?”

Boyd and Erica exchanged confused looks.

“They spring up here and there, all over the forest,” Boyd said. “They’re rare though, don’t make a mistake – if you look for them, you may find yourself outwitted. It’s when your mind wanders that you may find an exemplar. Most often nearly underfoot, about to be crushed.”

Stiles wasn’t nearly satisfied with the answer. “Surely there’s a place where more of them spring up?”

“Well.” Boyd thought about it for a little moment. “Actually, yes. If one follows the Muvab brook deeper into the forest, there’s a little grove of hackberry trees where more can be found. It’s at least two hours from here, however. And that only if you’re very fast and sure-footed.”

Two hours into the no-man’s land of the forest, where only shadows and wild beasts would be his companions. Was it doable? Could Stiles undertake such a trip? He so wanted the answer to be yes.

“You’re not in the mood of doing anything foolish, are you?” Boyd asked with a frown. He was a beta to boot, but Stiles had realized long ago that the whole world felt responsible for omegas and liked to meddle in their affairs (whether they were invited to do so or not).

“No,” Stiles said. “I know I’ve made a foolish decision one time or two, but I’ve grown beyond that.”

And he was telling the truth, for there was nothing foolish about the endeavor he was already planning in his mind.  
  
  


*

  
  


When Stiles returned home in the late hours of the afternoon, he ran up to his room and opened one of the books Deaton had lent him, _Historia Occultum Plantarum_. It had been written by a young botanist who’d ventured out to the West Indies after his studies at Cambridge. As always, a little _rush_ went through Stiles, a thrill of something he couldn’t quite describe. At times he thought some Deaton’s books spoke to him, if not literally then figuratively; then he chided himself on being an excess bundle of idiosyncrasies, all odd angles and nothing even.

His trembling fingers found the page quickly, and he cursed quietly.

The drawing was the exact same flower he had found in Erica and Boyd’s home, unmistakably. A blossom formed like a slender chalice, opening up into a seven-pointed star. White but with a pattern of black dots flecking at each petal and black lines running from the center outward: _Wild Ivegon [scripus chordata]._

Its supposed properties were wide-spanning, and thus it could be used to enhance many potions and spell works, from simple ones that alleviated headaches to more complicated ones that strengthened the caster’s magical abilities.

The book stated that the ivegon plant unfurled its blossoms only at night. It was at the height of its potency under the full moon and withered once the first frost set in.

Well. That gave Stiles a precise time limit to work with.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dare I say there's a hint of (the future) plot in this chapter?


	4. Into the Deep, Dark Woods

  
  
  
Stiles waited until his father’s loud snores could be heard down the hallway and then slipped out of his room, mindful of every creaking plank along the way. He’d waited three days for the moon to be full, anxiously keeping track of the weather and gathering everything he needed for his clandestine trip. His backpack was filled with food and water, a blanket, a lantern, and a large knife; there was no telling what would come in handy, and Stiles had always read that it was good to be prepared. He knew his clandestine adventure was a foolish thing for an omega to do, something that could tarnish his reputation if he were caught, but Stiles just _had_ to find out the truth. It was like a compulsion he couldn’t shake, something that would drive him mad if he didn’t give in to the temptation.

He could count himself fortunate on two accounts – that they lived in the outskirts of Beacon Hills and not in the middle of the town, where some neighbors’ watchful eyes might spot him sneaking out of the house, and that he had plenty of time for his little adventure. His father had worked late, on a case he’d refused to tell Stiles of, and would not rise early.

There was a stiff breeze outside but it was not unbearably chilly. The full moon meant that it was bright enough to see where he put his feet, bright enough even for Stiles to cast a stark shadow. For now, he wouldn’t need to light his lantern.

Stiles didn’t encounter another soul as he walked through the fields. There were farm houses in the distance, and sometimes he still saw a light burning in their windows, but no one besides him was still out on the well-trod field paths. It was peaceful and quiet. One time he saw a fox vanishing in a field, and another time an opossum took offense to his presence and hissed at him before scattering away, but that was all the excitement to be had. Stiles was hardly slower than the four-wheeled carriage had been the other day, even though he was hiking over hedge and ditch. He was young and fit, sure, but more importantly carriages were notoriously slow. Horses could either walk for a long time or run for a short time; speed needed to be traded in for endurance and vice versa.

It didn’t take long for Stiles to reach the Muvab brook, which ran alongside the fields for a while. This was the easy stretch of the journey, and while Stiles stumbled one or two times when he stepped into a hole in the uneven ground, he made good progress. The brook murmured nearby, reassuringly, as if keeping a running commentary on Stiles’ adventures out and about.

It was liberating, being out alone so late. Liberating and – admittedly – quite frightening.

When Stiles had been a boy, he’d been allowed to roam the fields and forests surrounding Beacon freely, same as other children. As he’d gotten older, that freedom had been curtailed; the list of behavior that was frowned upon had grown and grown and grown, like a magical scroll unfurling itself, and when he’d come of a marriageable age, walks alone had become a thing of the past, as had many other liberties. In the public sphere, omegas were hardly ever left to their own devices; it was customary to have them accompanied. One’s lot in life was determined by one’s reputation to no small degree, and even something as insubstantial as rumors had the power to erode that foundation and greatly diminish an omega’s prospects of marriage. Being caught out and about late at night – without a chaperone, a guardian, or the faintest excuse that would hold up to scrutiny? Doing god knows what with god knows whom? That was nothing less than social suicide, and Stiles would be a ruined man after a scandal of that proportion.

What he was doing now was foolish and reckless, especially considering the slim odds for success. For all Stiles knew, the botanical writings could have been borne of someone’s opium-fueled fever dreams. And yet he had to do it. He had to find out whether the ivegon plant really had all the properties that the book listed. That would change _everything_ ; the implications were so wide-reaching he didn’t dare to consider them all.

And so, hope and curiosity propelled him forward.

The forest loomed like a dark wall behind the fields. At some point the brook twisted and then led straight into it. Stiles followed suit and quickly saw that he would need to light his lantern when he reached the edge of the forest; the brightness of the full moon did not quite reach the ground here. The light was being swallowed by the dense canopy. Stiles retrieved the tinderbox from his backpack and lit the three candles inside the lantern, watching with satisfaction as flames were brought into existence. He could hardly get lost as long as he kept the brook in sight. It was like a lifeline that would lead him back to the open fields. By Boyd’s descriptions, he had to follow it for roughly two hours – he took out his pocket watch to check the time – and keep his eye out for a grove of hackberry trees. It was unlikely that Stiles would be successful in finding the ivegon plant right away, but he was willing to search for it multiple times if need be. Even if he had to wait out the winter to do so.

At the rate things were going, that looked like an increasingly likely possibility. The forest terrain was more difficult to navigate than Stiles had foreseen. Some stretches were covered in thick underbrush or otherwise impassable. In more than one case, he had to climb over fallen trees. When he ventured too close to the brook, his shoes sank into the soft, muddy ground, and he accidentally soaked his shoes in water on no less than three occasions. What had Boyd said? That you needed to be sure-footed? Stiles certainly wasn’t; no one had ever accused him of being a shining example of grace. He was stumbling around in the darkness, a fool set out on a foolish endeavor. When he checked his pocket watch, only forty minutes had passed, even though it felt like hours must have gone by. He felt tender and bruised. If only he could have asked Boyd to accompany him… but he had no inkling how he would have phrased such a request without explaining his motivation; surely Boyd would have assumed him to be barmy on the crumpet.

To make matters even worse, Stiles startled every time an owl so much as hooted. It took some getting used to, the way the forest all around him was a living, breathing entity. Small animals were scurrying around in the leaves, presumably startled by his presence. Sometimes the sound of breaking twigs could be heard. Other sounds were louder and more alarming still. It took Stiles a while to figure that those were most likely cones, chestnuts and the like hitting the ground suddenly or without warning, causing a little cascade of sound. More than once Stiles had the eerie thought that he would hardly notice someone standing among the columns of the trees in front of him, which would cause chills to creep up his spine. His lantern only illuminated a small area around him, the fire flickering back and forth and making the shadows in his reach dance. It was a mixed blessing: making Stiles see, certainly, but also making Stiles be _seen_. He felt exposed in the darkness of the forest, where a thousand and one eyes might be watching. He thought of all the things that scared him, big and small; of the monsters and murderers he had read about, and the criminals his father dealt with. For a brief moment he also thought of Theo Raeken. There was something deeply disquieting about the alpha, a cruel streak just barely hiding beneath the surface. It was unfortunate that he’d singled out Stiles as the subject of his affections… if they could be called that and stay within the meaning of the word. 

Luckily for Stiles, nothing in the forest was out to harm him, and certainly not Theo Raeken; those were just the imaginings of an overactive mind. He was safe. No need to tremble in his boots.

A sound pierced through the forest just then, as if to mock Stiles. A single lone wail rising into the night sky; confident and strong.

A – a _wolf howl?_

Another voice joined in, then another one, then another – until the voices were too many to be counted, rising into a single prolonged cry, eerie and beautiful.

A wolf _pack_.

And Stiles instinctively knew that they were out hunting. Dread gripped him, an iron hand squeezing tight around his ribcage. He felt like _prey_. Utterly vulnerable, like the wolves were on his trail specifically. Like they were a punishment for Stiles daring to sneak out alone, conjured up by some mean-spirited entity. When the howls faded into a charged silence, Stiles succumbed to panic and broke into a full-out run, crashing through the forest in a manner fit to wake sleeping giants. It was near pitch-black all around him. He saw just enough not to run into a tree or stumble over roots, although his lantern was knocked from his grip by a stray branch and shattered on the ground. Any second he expected to be chased down, to hear the beasts running behind him.

Stiles stopped running only when he needed to catch his breath. When he doubled over and had to clutch his sides, which felt as if they were being pricked with needles all over. His lungs _burned_. His labored breathing was overwhelmingly loud in the forest. For long moments, his panting was the only sound he could make out.

It was by degrees that the panic receded and the tight, constricting feeling in Stiles’ chest lifted enough for him to think more clearly.

The good news was… so far nothing had eaten him.

The bad news: Stiles had no idea where the hell he _was_. He turned on his own axis and found the forest to look the same in every direction. The reassuring murmur of the brook was nowhere to be heard. The only thing he could hear was the wind brushing through the branches and making the forest whisper all around him.

Stiles didn’t have the _faintest_ idea if he had run deeper into the forest or not. Beacon Hills could be in any direction.

Well.

This was not optimal.

If Stiles had been a skilled climber, he might have scaled one of the trees to figure out where to turn. He wasn’t a skilled climber though, especially considering the height of the trees, which loomed over him like the columns of a cathedral. He’d probably break his neck rather than achieve anything worthwhile. 

Nevertheless Stiles decided to _move_. Whether it was forward or backwards he didn’t know. He was clueless about his own location, never mind the town’s. But keeping still had never been his forte, and he could hardly run into a familiar landmark if he remained rooted to the spot. He was gambling on his lucky streak. Or perhaps some dormant part of his brain had memorized more of the way than he could recall? Either way Stiles knew couldn’t just wait it out for the sun to come up; that luxury was firmly denied to him. If his father discovered him to be gone, he would be frightened out of his wits and send the cavalry after him. And that meant all hell would break loose. At least he had packed a knife when he’d ventured out. The belated realization was very much welcome. Stiles retrieved it and immediately felt better with the cold hard blade in his hand. It promised a modicum of security, or at least the illusion of being able to defend himself.

Stiles stole through the night like a thief, on carefully quiet feet and while straining his ears. All the sounds he had heard before, all those mysterious noises of the wind and the vegetation interacting in their curious manner, were still present and appeared even more threatening to him. The moonlight had difficulties in reaching the ground in this part of the forest but managed to illuminate the contours of branches and shrubs. This was a world of shadows, and Stiles was an interloper.

It showed. Stiles became uneasy when he had been walking for a little while. Something odd sent a chill down his spine on hurried spider legs. Something was wrong. His body knew it before his mind did, was pulsing with his fear before he could phrase the thought. There was a _pattern_ to the tapestry of noises… an undercurrent of intention, of purpose. Yes, _there_ it was. And there again. It sounded like _footsteps_. Soft ones that were following him at a measured pace, rustling leaves and breaking small twigs. Stiles gripped his knife with a white-knuckled hand and spun around wildly in an attempt to make out the source of it all.

The sounds stopped.

Utter silence reigned as if the forest itself was holding its breath. 

Stiles blinked owlishly, determined as he was to _see_ the creature that waited for him in the shadows. He didn’t dare move an inch; he remained rigidly poised on the spot, like a hunter, like a dancer, waiting for a signal to dissolve into motion. When nothing happened, and he indeed could see nothing at all in any direction, Stiles wondered whether his mind had been playing a trick on him. It didn’t seem far-fetched. His imagination was quite active even at the best of times, and now… well. It would be no wonder. 

It was an admittedly benign interpretation, but Stiles decided to accept it for now and keep moving. He walked in the opposite direction of the area where he had made out the noises though - better to be safe than sorry.

Stiles had nearly convinced himself that he was not in any danger when the noises could be heard once more. Footsteps! Soft, padded footsteps! It had to be! 

Yet again Stiles tried his best to determine the source of that noise.

Yet again that endeavor was fruitless. In full paranoia, Stiles peered over his shoulders every few second and kept walking more hurriedly.

The first time it happened could be attributed to worn-out nerves, certainly.

The second time was harder to explain away.

The third and fourth time proved impervious to any attempts at rationalization. 

Either Stiles had fully succumbed to hysteria and was entertaining figments of his own imagination, or he was being followed by a creature as insistent and intractable as his own shadow. He kept moving away from the source of the noise, whatever good it did him, and soon got fed up with being circled like the world’s dimmest prey. Suddenly his sense of unease was replaced with scorching anger. Did his pursuer think Stiles so easily outwitted? So defenseless and bereft of ideas? On a whim, Stiles picked up a stick and flung it in the area where he’d last heard some noises. Even so it was a _shock_ to hear an echoing _growl_ as something was indeed hit by it.

Oh gripes.

Stiles regretted _everything_.

The shadows _moved_ in front of him, a couple of yards away, bending shape in smooth, rolling movements. 

What…?

And then Stiles realized what his eyes saw and froze in abject terror. A black _wolf_ detached itself from the shadows. It was a staggeringly large beast, no comparison to the town’s yard dogs that yanked at their chains and yapped when someone passed their property. An entirely different breed. A hellhound conjured up by his worst fears, emerging from the darkness of the forest like a demon.

That was it, that was the _end_ – Stiles was going to be mangled by this beast. A million things flew through his mind, fragments of memories whirling in the confines of his mind like snowflakes in the midst of a storm. The one thing that pierced through the chaos, the single thought that rose to prominence, was that his father didn’t know where he was and would most likely never find out. It was enough to make Stiles choke up. His father didn’t deserve that heartache after having lost his wife so cruelly. By god, he didn’t deserve a son so stupid and reckless.

The wolf didn’t move – _yet_.

Stiles frantically looked around and found a heavy stone lying on the ground, not far away from his feet. Keeping his eyes on the wolf, he picked it up with one fumbling hand. The other one was still wielding the increasingly quaint-looking kitchen knife. The wolf growled menacingly as Stiles. Frankly - and was there anyone who could blame him - that was enough of an incentive to throw the stone at it. 

It was pitiful, as far as pitches went. The stone landed a good two yards away from the wolf’s front paws, indenting the forest floor with a heavy thud. The animal looked at it and then at Stiles as if to say, _really?_ That is all the strength you could muster?

Stiles had never felt so unfairly judged in his entire life. First of all, the stone had been _heavier_ than expected and secondly he was hardly an expert in throwing parts of the local landscape at wild animals, least of all with his non-writing hand!

The wolf snorted, which sounded either like an expression of amusement or one of derision to Stiles’ ears. At least the animal seemed remarkably unaggressive; Stiles had yet to be mauled. Instead of pursuing that option, it turned around, walked a few steps and then paused to look at Stiles. It seemed to wait for a reaction. Stiles stared at it, deeply lost. What a curious creature. He had no idea what it wanted from him if he was not part of this night’s meal plan. 

Huffing, the wolf repeated the little routine. Trotting a few steps. Turning to look at Stiles with an air of haughty anticipation.

Stiles’ mouth fell open. That _couldn’t_ be… could it? “You want me to _follow_ you?” he asked in disbelief. 

The wolf's tail swished once, as if in confirmation.

“I – I take that as a yes, shall I?” Stiles exhaled shakily. “You want me to follow you.”

So he did. He followed the beast. It felt as if he’d been dropped into a fairytale, unceremoniously and without care, just with the snap of a fairy godmother’s fingers. Stiles remained on edge at first, as he believed the wolf might still attack him when its brain shifted from friend to foe, but his worries eased as the minutes went by and nothing happened. The wolf didn’t appear overly interested in him – in fact, it barely acknowledged his existence, so long as Stiles followed behind. It was only when his speed slowed, or he faltered and stumbled that the wolf turned to look at him. Stiles felt like a particularly moronic sheep that was being herded back to safety. As limited as Stiles’ experience with wild animals was, this surely wasn’t normal behavior by any stretch of the imagination. Not that he felt inclined to question his luck either; if you weren’t supposed to look a gift horse in the mouth, that must apply doubly so for gift wolves.

After an hour of brisk walking, the forest thinned considerably and glimpses of the open field could be caught between the trees. What a sight for sore eyes! The relief was overwhelming when Stiles finally emerged from the forest and the expanse of the fields stretched in front of him all the way to the horizon, across the gently rolling hills that had given the area their name. Had he been any more prone to melodramatics, he would have kissed the ground right then and there.

He was reasonably confident he would find his way from here. Soon enough he would cross a field path, and that field path would lead to another field path, and so on and so forth, and before he knew he’d be on his way home.

He tried to communicate this to the wolf at his side by making shooing motions. “You can go back now,” Stiles informed the wolf.

It inclined its head. It didn't look impressed.

“Shoo! Shoo! Back into the forest with you.”

The wolf growled at that – once, faintly – which was enough of a cue for Stiles to stop shooing it. This was an animal that didn’t appreciate being shooed, clearly.

Just like before, it began to trot in front of Stiles and acted as if they were just coincidentally going in the same direction. Occasionally it lowered its head to the ground and followed one scent trail or another, sniffing at something Stiles couldn’t see. The light glistened on its ink-black coat every time it so much as shifted its muscles. It was a beautiful animal; decidedly not a hell hound. It seemed Stiles had found an unlikely guardian.

The walk back home felt very different from the one leading away from it, where it had been all nervous excitement, an exhilarating sense of the adventure, a taste of the forbidden. Now Stiles felt primarily exhausted. Running your life was a tiring business. At least it was still early enough that no one was out on the fields yet, not even the most industrious of farmers. The night sky was dotted with the needle points of millions of stars.

Stiles was glad when they reached the outskirts of Beacon Hills. The rest of the way was a stroll in the park. Literally even, as they weaved in and out of neighboring estates and came across duck ponds, overspilling flower beds, quaint park benches and the like. Stiles led the way in this area. There was a secret little pathway into the Stilinski’s garden if one didn’t want to come up directly to the front of the house. The garden itself was a bit wilder than was custom, the various plants not as neatly trimmed and manicured, not quite shaped into perfection, but Stiles preferred it like that. And that wasn’t laziness speaking. (Well, at least not exclusively.)

The wolf followed him even into the garden. It hefted its nose to the ground and tracked some smell; ears pulled back, fur bristling as it growled slightly. What a queer animal.

Stiles knelt down and made soft noises – the ones he usually reserved for kittens – to lure the wolf to his side. Surprisingly enough it worked. “You gave me a terrible fright when I first saw you,” he confessed to the wolf. “Can I pet you, pal?” He extended a timid hand, ready to retrieve it at any moment should the wolf appear skittish or reluctant. It didn’t. It was attentive but calm, and so Stiles petted the wolf’s massive head gently, ruffling the fur behind its ears. The coat was thick and unexpectedly soft. “It seems as if I made a new friend. And in the strangest of circumstances, no less.”

The wolf whined. Stiles wasn’t sure whether that was a confirmation or not.

Just then, movements could be heard from within the house. Stiles looked up and found a lamp in the room of his father lit. He cursed under his breath. His complacency be damned! He still wasn’t in the clear yet.

After petting the wolf one last time, he ran up to the front door and opened the door as quietly as possibly, stealing into the house like a thief. Two staircases led to the upper level – the main one, which was grand and representative, and the narrower one, which was meant to be used by servants. As the Stilinskis didn’t employ a staff (his father had seen one too many butlers at the center of a murder investigation), Stiles could take the servant staircase without running into someone. Once he was in his room, he tossed off his muddy boots, his coat, and the backpack he was carrying, and pushed the incriminating evidence as far under the bed as he could. Then he burrowed beneath the covers.

A minute or two passed until there was a knock on the door, after which his father opened it a crack and peeked into the room. He was carrying an oil lamp. “Stiles? Everything in order?”

“Um,” Stiles said eloquently. “I just got up to get some water. I’m not feeling well.”

John strode over to his bed and scrutinized his appearance, worry deepening the lines on his forehead. He pressed a palm against Stiles’ temple. “You’re flushed.”

“I might have caught a fever,” Stiles said with just the right pinch of a pitiful tone.

“You do look a bit under the weather,” his father agreed. “Especially given that it’s not even a Sunday.”

They both smiled at the feeble joke.

“I’ll bring you some tea and buttered toast,” John said and patted his son’s shoulder reassuringly. “You stay put and get some rest.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles watched him leave and close the door. Then he exhaled, slowly, as realization set in – he’d done it. Gotten home in one piece. Admittedly without the ivegon plant, but that hardly mattered in this moment. He burrowed deeper into his bed, under his new favorite quilt (which depicted cats playing with balls of wool, what else), and tried to make sense of the events of the night. A sliver of sky could be seen through the window. The darkness of the night gradually melted into an indigo tone, which in turn softened into a hazy grey.

Sleep didn’t come for a long time.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A BIG thank you to my beta-readers who suggested that I rewrite parts of this chapter and beta-read the changes. Thank you, guys! I think the scene where Stiles meets Derek in his wolfy form now fits the general tone of the story a lot more. 
> 
> Overall this chapter is a bit of an interlude. Coming up next: the Fall Festival. It’s going to be the biggest chapter yet (with 6k).


	5. The Fall Festival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene of (verbal) sexual harassment. If you want to skip it, search for "fair point" and "air between" [ctrl+f], which mark the beginning and the ending of that scene respectively.

  
  
  
His latest excursion had Stiles put off nightly adventures; if not forever, then certainly for the near future. He hadn’t dared walk into the forest again. His thoughts, however, often returned to that night in an effort to make sense of what had happened, particularly of the wolf that had accompanied him home. 

Stiles needed _answers_ , and there were precious few places where he could get them.

And so one afternoon found him knocking on Deaton’s door. As always, he was first greeted by the merry whistle of a wind chime dangling over the door frame. The doctor was usually busy traveling from house to house, most often with Scott in tow, but two times a week he kept open hours at his own home, a stately townhouse in the middle of Beacon Hills. It was Stiles’ luck that he managed to catch Deaton on a quiet day and could swiftly return the handful of books that Deaton had lend him.

Deaton smiled when Stiles handed him the books back. “I hope you found them diverting.”

“I did!” Stiles said, enthused.

“I’m glad. I had thought you might.”

Stiles preened under the comment, which he regarded as a fierce compliment. Deaton was a learned man and widely respected as such. Stiles could scarcely believe he had been singled out by him as someone with _potential_.

Emboldened, Stiles said, “I actually have a question about the botanical book, _Historia Occultum Plantarum_.”

“Certainly,” Deaton replied, as amiable as ever. “What is it?”

“Well.” Stiles took a breath. “The author describes the plants he’s researched as mythical – because they’re so rare and yet so cherished in local folklore, with magical properties assigned to them. My question is – do you think there might actually be some truth to it?”

Deaton considered that. “Truth to what part?”

“Do you think that those plants might actually exist and might actually have, well... extraordinary properties?”

“What do _you_ think?” Deaton asked.

Curse that man and his sphinx-like inability to give a straight answer. “I find…” Stiles worried his lower lip. “It’s not unheard of that scientists embellish their own findings or for explorers to make grand claims. Especially if even the most discerning reader can’t prove them wrong one way or another, stuck as they are many thousands of miles away from the _terra incognita_.”

Deaton nodded. Still waiting.

“But that wasn’t the impression I got from the author, James Gilligan… his observations seemed astute and dry, and in no way embellished to seem more sensational. It’s made me question whether he’s actually witnessed everything he said he has seen. And to make matters even more pressing… recently I saw a flower that bore a great resemblance to the ivegon plant. I know it’s too extreme a coincidence, especially as Beacon Hills hardly situated in the West Indies, but…” Stiles trailed off as his embarrassment rose. Actually stating the idea out loud made him seem gullible and naïve.

“…and yet you wonder.” Deaton hummed softly. “An interesting notion, I’d say.”

“You think it’s possible?”

“Yes, quite. I’ve traveled far and wide and seen all manner of curious things. Things that shouldn’t have been possible, things that defied every plausible explanation. And even the things that we do know – things that are entirely rational in their nature – a generation or two ago would have seemed like a fever dream. I’ve attended lectures of William Sturgeon, in a group now known as the London Electrical Society, and seen someone manipulating that magnificent force of nature, electricity! There is scarcely a polytheistic religion without a god of thunder and lightning. Taming electricity used to be the domain of _gods_ , and yet here we are: manipulating it.”

Stiles felt thunderstruck. As if the axis of his Earth had shifted ever so slightly – as if everything had _changed_ , once and for all. The notion sent a shuddering thrill down his spine.

“That’s… certainly a different way to look at it.“

“There’s no telling how primitive we will seem to our children, and our children to theirs,” Deaton said with a sardonic smile. “What is called magic and superstition these days might only be science not known yet.”

Stiles whistled under his breath. “This may seem like tangent, but… do you happen to know if wolves inhabit the area?”

Deaton’s expression was unreadable. “ _Canis lupus_? They aren’t common in these parts anymore, but who knows if a pack might not have wandered south? It’s a shame that we humans are always so quick to see wolves as our adversaries. Man and wolf have coexisted peacefully in the Americas long before European settlers set their foot here.”

“Right,” Stiles said. They didn’t live in a huge cattle region, but even in these parts the farmers sometimes poisoned a cow with strychnine and let the predators find it. Mostly coyotes and mountain lions. A lawyer’s favorite hunting dog had recently fed from such a carcass and died; there’d been a huge commotion. “Do you happen to have any information about wolves?”

A smile materialized on Deaton’s lips again. “I have several books about them. Such fascinating animals.”

Stiles’ heart made a leap. _Knowledge_ , just within his grasp! “Would you terribly mind me borrowing them?”

“Not at all,” Deaton said. “In fact, I insist on it. I _implore_ you to borrow them. I’ll call for Mr. Davis, he will help you pick them out.” When nothing happened, Deaton rang a table bell. “My apologies. He tends to be rather forgetful, frankly I’ve seen fruit flies with a better span of attention....Jeff? _Jeff?_ Ah, there you are.” 

Mr. Davis was Deaton’s steward as well as record keeper and graciously led Stiles to the library in the North Wing of the house, where neat rows of hundreds of books waited to be perused. Stiles took his time looking for the right reading material, as always feeling like a kid in a candy shop. He found a few books on the taxonomy of carnivores and took those, but he also retrieved some folkloristic and – one might say! – sensationalist accounts, the latter of which Mr. Davis recommended to him in particular. His fingers hesitated when he came upon a tome titled, _The Affliction and Gift of the Lycanthropic Wolf Malady._

He put that with the others too.  
  
  


*

 

The Fall Festival was fast approaching.

When the event arrived one Saturday morning, the air was crisp and clear and every tree enshrouded in gold. Stiles took his time getting ready; enjoying a long, steaming hot bath and then styling his hair with a small amount of wax until there was a light pompadour wave to it. He put on one of his nicer outfits, too. He hoped Lydia would be proud of him! (Or at least less exasperated than usual).

When he went down he found his father sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over papers. Some of them were sketches of animals, curiously enough.

“Did you bring work home?” Stiles asked.

John startled as he became aware of his son’s presence. “Of sorts,” he said and shuffled the papers so Stiles couldn’t get a glimpse at them, hurriedly covering the sketches. 

Such a spoilsport.

Stiles tutted. “Working on a Saturday? _Again?_ ”

“You know I can’t help it. It’s my idea of fun.”

“It’s sad that you’re not even lying. Is the case at least interesting?”

A blank look. “You know nothing dramatic ever happens here.”

“Except for the odd missing farm animal, right?”

John’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“I’m right on the mark? We have a cattle thief in our midst?”

“Nothing like that. _Stiles_.” His father sighed, rubbing his face. “I can’t discuss any of this with you, you know that, and it’s of no import anyway. “

Oh sure. Not important and yet his father poured over the reports on the weekend. Did he think Stiles was that easy to fool?

Theoretically Stiles understood that his father shouldn’t discuss cases with him, but in practice the implicit rejection still stung. If not for the misfortune of being born an omega, Stiles would have liked to become a man of the law himself. Giving his curious mind and obsessive urges, as well as his interest in the morbid, it seemed the perfect fit. Unfortunately it would never happen. Even if his father had been fine with bending the rules beyond the breaking point, and he certainly wasn’t and had said so repeatedly, a police officer needed to be approved by the town council and that wasn’t about to happen for an omega anytime soon. 

John seemed to sense his dark mood and changed the subject. “You’re heading out?”

Stiles bristled at the blatant distraction attempt, but for the moment he had no choice but playing along with it. He nodded. “Heading into town. Scott and Kira are going to pick me up.”

“I will be there too, later on. We have the whole regiment working today.” His father got up and gave Stiles a big bear hug, which Stiles had never stopped being fond of no matter how old he got. His resentment melted away - at least a little bit.

“Enjoy yourself, son.”  
  
  


*

 

The Festival was one of the highlights of Beacon Hills’ social calendar. It was said that one’s station in life could be deduced by one’s preference for either the Festival or the Yuletide Ball. The former had the reputation of being common, perhaps even a tad _rowdy_. In elegance and aspiration it was outshone by Whittemore’s Yuletide Ball that took place a couple of weeks later, but the Ball lacked jugglers and sword swallowers and fire dancers and everything else that was fun, at least in Stiles’ humble opinion.

It seemed all the town was out and about.

And really, that was apparently quite true: at one point Stiles even saw _Hale_ in the crowd. The alpha was known to avoid any event that might be deemed fun by more frivolous minds. Stiles wondered what had drawn him out that day and then told himself sternly that he didn’t care about that. Especially since there were so many more worthwhile things to dwell on, like the annual pumpkin growing competition, or the booth with vegetables that resembled famous people. Those were _classic_ staples of the Fall festival, and much more interesting than Hale could ever dream to be. 

For the big day, booths had been put up all over Beacon Hill’s town center, especially in the town square. From the quaint to the artistic and entertaining, there were endless attractions to enjoy.

Accompanying Scott and Kira, Stiles felt very much like the fifth wheel on a smoothly running carriage. They made attempts to include him, but it was apparent they were in that infatuated stage of love where the world was reduced to all but two people. More than once they sought the cover of a dark corner and returned with reddened cheeks, alternately bashful or smirking. Since their engagement, the restriction on their affections had been loosened considerably. Engagements were considered so binding that fiancés and fiancées could be sued for not following through on the agreement, and a lot of brides and some grooms went down the aisle with gently swollen mid-sections. (On one memorable occasion, Stiles had even been present at a wedding with a bride suffering from severe morning sickness). 

Stiles felt like the worst friend in the world for feeling disgruntled by his friends’ happiness, for feeling _left out_. He knew he would have been more charitable if he’d had been similarly distracted. Then he reminded himself that physical intimacy with an alpha also meant he had to get to _know_ him, and _talk_ to him, and that was where he drew the line and considered himself well blessed.

At one point Kira and Scott let their likeness be sketched by a street artist, whose sure, deft strokes pinned them down in a few minutes. Stiles’ spirit brightened considerably when they commissioned another sketch from him and flanked Stiles on both sides, linking their arms with his. He loved the resulting drawing.

By midday they were tasting varieties of beers, of which one flavored with pumpkin was their favorite. Kira and Stiles had to stop after a couple of small glasses before they felt any more dizzy, while Scott appeared entirely unaffected and slandered them as lightweights. They decided to get some food next to counter the effects of the alcohol. A genius baker had put bread on sticks and was roasting them in a stone oven after sprinkling them with cheese, sizzling bacon and herbs. The gloves Stiles wore made it difficult to eat, but he braved the challenge and wrapped the stick in a napkin, which soaked up the grease just fine.

Naturally, it was while undertaking that delicate operation that he became aware of Mrs. Blake in the crowd. Stiles was immediately hit by the urge to straighten his posture. Mrs. Blake had been the only other omega teaching at the school when he had been there: widowed, prim, and always on the proper side of things, she had never been a friend of his. Admittedly, she probably still remembered him attending her etiquette class and making fun of her beloved _Complete and Esteemed Guide to Behaviors and Manners for a Proper Omega_ , in which case he could hardly fault her for having a poor opinion of him. Stiles watched as none other than _Theo Raeken_ greeted Mrs. Blake and engaged in polite conversation with her. He dragged Kira and Scott along. Better to flee than to be noticed by him!

On a side street, rows of head-high mirrors had been put up. They were wavy and distorted the image of anyone gazing into them. Stiles wandered along the row of mirrors, in turn feeling like a child or like a giant, spindly thin or bursting at the seams. How odd, to be able to change one’s appearance so readily, just at will. Stiles laughed when he saw Scott’s mirror image, which looked impossibly bulky and muscular. Scott appeared to be disturbed by the visual, maybe even offended, which made it all the more hilarious to Stiles.

It was then that Stiles spotted a tent to the side that promised fortune-telling. He remembered what Deaton had said, about science not known yet. “Let’s have our fortunes told!”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Scott hedged.

Stiles wouldn’t be deterred. “Come on, I want to know how many children of yours I can spoil in the future!”

That seemed to do the trick, and so Kira and Scott let themselves be dragged into the tent. It was empty save for them and the apparent fortune teller, who wore a foreign-looking dress that Stiles assumed was supposed to give her a more mysterious allure. The air was thick with incense and caused Scott to sneeze repeatedly. All sounds from the outside were muted through the heavy cloth of the tent, and the light was filtered into a reddish tone. 

“I’ll go first,” Kira told them.

The fortune teller asked them to make themselves comfortable (an easy task, since cushions were all over the floor). Then she took Kira’s hand. She studied the palm intensely, gently tracing some lines. “My, my, you’re a fiery one,” she said and grinned at Kira with delight. “Remarkable.”

“Me, fiery?” Kira squeaked.

“I can vouch for that,” Scott said with a smirk, and promptly caught an elbow to the side. 

The fortune teller hummed. “Well, my child, you’re the calm eye of the storm, moving in the center of upheaval. Yours is a life rarely witnessed, a path near as long-winding as time itself. This husband of yours you will bear six children; three sons and three daughters. They will be marked by the moon and the storm.” 

Kira seemed stunned. “What does that mean?”

“ _Six_ children?” Scott asked. He seemed both thrilled and overwhelmed.

“What it means I can’t tell you,” the fortune teller said. “That is for you to find out. And you, young gentleman? Would you like your fortune told?”

“No thanks,” Scott said. “I’m fine. I’m not fond of… meddling with these things.”

“I didn’t peg you as the superstitious type,” Stiles said.

Scott shrugged. “Then you thought wrong.”

Whatever the cause for Scott’s hesitation, Stiles couldn’t deny himself the fun. He sat down and offered his palm to the fortune teller. She took it and regarded it with care. “What a caged little thing you are. Born into the day, and yet you will live by the night. Yours is a world of secret treasures where others see baubles. Yours is a life that folds like a piece of paper, one turn at a time.”

Stiles smiled at her uncertainly. “Uh… alright? Care to be any more specific?”

“Not particularly,” she said serenely.

“Aren’t you going to tell me any of the usual stuff? Marriage, children, any future episodes of rampant alcoholism?”

She wouldn’t. It seemed those cryptic lines were all she had to impart. “Well,” Stiles said when they all left the parlor. “That was something.”

Scott was soon waylaid by an acquaintance of his, someone he knew through Deaton, which left Kira and Stiles to talk among themselves. Kira seemed subdued and distracted; lost in her thoughts. Stiles regarded her cautiously, wondering whether it had been a mistake to badger her into the fortune-telling. “Are you alright?”

Kira shrugged. It seemed she would stay quiet but then said, “I want to have children, I really do. I’m happy if I’m going to have a lot of them.”

That sounded like a _but_ sentence to Stiles. “But?”

Kira lowered her voice until it was a whisper and looked around surreptitiously, checking if they were overheard by chance or design. “Just not right _now_. I don’t want to have a child right away. Everyone is telling me how much I’m going to enjoy being a mother, and truly I believe I will... but for now, I just want to be with Scott and get to know him. I want to give _us_ a chance to see – to see who we really are, together. To grow, and learn, and enjoy ourselves. And besides I love working in the archives and want to focus on the merit of that work. It doesn’t feel like the right time to care for another person so wholeheartedly, for a child. Am I being silly?”

Stiles was struck by Kira’s candidness. “No. Not at all.”

That brought the shadow of a smile to Kira’s face. “You don’t think so?”

“No! I agree with you.” Stiles snorted. “Not that I’m in any position to choose, but I wouldn’t be ready to raise a child right now either. And I’m supposed to be a wondrous baby-making machine whose sole purpose on Earth is procreation!”

“I hate that there’s no choice,” Kira said quietly. “I mean, sure, there are some precautions one could take, but none of them are truly effective enough. It’s causing me anxiety. I want to enjoy _finally_ being able to… well. You know.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said. It was an unpleasant situation, no doubt about it, and in that regard he didn’t envy Kira at all. Beta women weren’t treated much different than omegas. They were expected to remain abstinent until a serious courtship had been initiated, but there was little time to enjoy that pleasure once you _could_ indulge in it. Not that any sort of indulging should even be a part of the equation if you listened to the clerics! They saw sex as a strictly utilitarian act, to be suffered through in dignity by the receiving party. The idea of pleasure for the sole purpose of pleasure was anathema to them. 

Stiles couldn’t offer a solution to Kira, and neither did she expect one. It was their fate and there was nothing to be done about it. 

When Scott rejoined them, there was no hesitation in Kira’s smile. It was clear and bright.

As night fell, the town square was emptied of the booths and the exhilaration in the air reached its fever peak. Everyone was impatient for the dancing to begin. The square looked suitably festive, with strings of colorful lanterns spanning its width and breath. Musicians set up their camp on the platform in the middle of the square and began to tune their instruments.

At eight o’clock, Talia Hale made her way through a crowd that parted easily for her. She wore a high-waisted grey dress; her long black curls had been tamed into a bun. As always, her style was rather simple. The only concession to her high status was her trademark necklace with a yellow beryl pendant that caught the light at odd moments. Talia Hale seemed like the type of person to whom you could confide anything; the type of person that would go after your enemies or give you the strength to do it yourself. She exuded a calm authority that Stiles had always found soothing.

A few people in the crowd yelled her name in a cheering manner, but she silenced them with a smile and an arched eyebrow. She relayed Mayor Dubois’ apologies, who (as Stiles knew from his father) was battling a delirious fever and in no state of giving speeches. After briefly talking about a charity that the Fall Festival supported, she urged everyone to dance and enjoy the night.

The musicians began to play after her speech, while the crowd streamed to the dance floor.

Scott and Kira were more than ready to join everyone else, albeit Scott silently asked for Stiles’ approval first. It was considered rude to leave a friend alone on the sidelines, especially if that friend also happened to be an omega.

“For the love of God, go!” Stiles told them. “Enjoy yourselves while you’re still young.”

That was all the encouragement they needed, and Stiles smiled as he observed them joining the crowd. Once Scott would have sent Stiles a panicked look of help, inexperienced as he was with the other sexes; now seemed entirely at ease in his body. He wrapped his arms around Kira, who melted into the embrace and whispered something into his ear that made them both laugh.

Young love. How annoyingly adorable.

Unfortunately, Stiles wasn’t alone for long. With a deep bow that somehow still managed to seem disrespectful, Theo Raeken introduced himself to him. The _bane_ of Stiles’ existence. Other would-be suitors would have abandoned hopes long ago, but Raeken saw every slight as a motivation to charge on, every insult as all the more reason to make Stiles his. He’d been born into a family of wealth and influence, and given his unusually large sense of entitlement (even for an alpha), it showed.

“Mr. Stilinski!” he declared. “What an oversight that you’ve been left unattended.”

“I wasn’t left unattended. I’m not a child that needs minding.” Stiles bowed, making the gesture as brief as possible. “I was enjoying my own company up until this very moment, thank you very much.”

“I guess we have take our pleasures where we find them.” Raeken’s eyes looked at Stiles’ lips for more than a fleeting moment. “You look stunning tonight, if you don’t mind me saying. Would you forgive me saying that I’ve thought of you often and longingly?”

“I'm not in a generous mood, no." Stiles didn’t groan, but it was a near thing. That _smarmy_ asshole. "If only I could return the sentiment or the intent behind it.”

Raeken smirked. “I do enjoy your attitude, but not everyone will be as understanding as I am. Be aware of that.”

“Perish the thought! Personally, I see you as the very model of an understanding nature and measure everyone else’s in relation to yours.”

That resulted in a laugh. “Mr. Stilinski, you are without comparison. As much as I do enjoy our banter, I would enjoy dancing with you even more. Will join me for this dance?”

He extended his hand towards Stiles, who declined to take it. “I’m not feeling so well,” Stiles said and gave a very unconvincing little cough.

Raeken’s features darkened. “ _Stilinski_ , you’ve been exceptionally lucky in managing to attract my attention. Many omegas would be _delighted_ to dance with me.”

“Why don’t you ask any of them? That seems the logical conclusion.”

“I don’t want their company. I want yours.” Raeken looked at Stiles so intensely that the omega fought the urge to fidget. “You can play coy all you want. Some day you _will_ give in.”

“That day is not today,” Stiles said with a measure of calmness that didn’t reflect his true feelings. Instinctively he looked for his father or any of his officers, but there was no one nearby whose attention he could call on.

“So prideful,” Raeken muttered, more to himself than to Stiles. “You have such a high opinion of yourself, haven’t you? Whatever happened to your little job? Weren’t you a _teacher_?” Raeken sneered at the word. “Well, I suppose they saw through you soon enough. An omega should never be allowed into a teaching position, I’ve said that again and again; your minds are too soft and childlike, too gullible. How can the gentlest of all sexes be given authority when you do not possess the intellectual abilities to form a lasting foundation for it?”

“A fair point,” Stiles conceded. “Of course, I’d ask about your job, but last I checked you never had one, at least if we’re not counting gambling and visiting pleasure houses to underwhelm the local prostitutes.”

Raeken’s face fell; his features distorted into a grimace that was a ghastly sight to behold. Stiles though it reflected his nature far better. “Some of these days, someone _will_ teach you manners. I _promise_ you that. But I won’t be too cross with you, as I must make allowance for your state of belligerence. Young omegas are sometimes confused and lack direction.”

“I guess that’s a prime example for your understanding nature,” Stiles said, each word dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, it is,” Raeken replied maliciously. “An omega’s place is at home and hearth, belly preferably swollen with children.” He let his gaze wander over Stiles body at a leisured place, taking a vicious pleasure in Stiles’ discomfort. “I have no doubt you’ll mellow out once an alpha’s seeds have taken root in you. And how well you’ll take to a strong hand, one that guides you and disciplines you, I can only imagine in vivid detail…”

“It seems you never learned to stop talking when others have stopped listening,” Stiles said with a icy smile. “That is more than _enough_. You’re stretching the limits of propriety.”

Raeken leaned forward a fraction, lowering his voice. “Oh believe me, I’d rather stretch something else. Something deliciously tight that would benefit greatly from a good, hard adjustment.” He flashed a row of teeth at Stiles and gloated in the extent of his brutish behavior.

It wasn’t easy to shock Stiles, not by any means. And yet he found himself thrown off balance. Never in his life had he wanted to punch someone as much as in this moment; he was trembling in rage. Then he unclenched his fist as he considered the aftermath of such an action. Certainly, he had every right to cause a scene, but at what cost to him? He was already considered out of the norm in Beacon Hills, and Theo Raeken, a member of one of the most affluent and notable families, was widely respected despite his character and bearing.

The air between them was taut with tension; then someone stepped into their midst.

Mr. Hale.

It shouldn’t have surprised Stiles as much as it did. It seemed the alpha had the uncanny ability of appearing when you least expected him.

He greeted them both quite solemnly, fixating Raeken in particular with a sharp glare. Then he bowed to Stiles. “Would you care to join me for this dance, Mr. Stilinski?”

A dumbfounded yes later, Hale had taken Stiles’ gloved hand into his own and whisked him away, straight into the throng of dancing couples. Stiles didn’t miss the expression on Raeken’s face, however, the bare-naked humiliation that another alpha had taken away the prize that he was so very keen on. He wondered whether Hale had overheard Raeken’s remarks and was acting on a need to intervene, rescuing him like a maiden from the grasp of a monster, or whether the timing had just been coincidental. Either way he was grateful.

Stiles let the music wash over him and closed his eyes briefly, determined to shake the influence of Theo’s words on him. He didn’t want to give the alpha an inch of ground, nor spare a single more thought on him.

Let him instead think of how nice the night was, still warm enough at the tail end of summer. A night made for dancing. The group of musicians on the podium played a tune that even the most benevolent could not describe as anything other than _folksy_ , but it was swift and got everyone to put their feet to good use. He caught a glimpse of Scott and Kira dancing in the distance, and a bit nearer by Lydia and Braeden were enjoying each other’s company. Lydia was a stunning vision in her midnight blue dress and curls the color of gleaming copper, but more importantly she looked as happy as Stiles had ever seen her, and Braeden seemed equally pleased. Stiles knew the bounty hunter could be tough – had to be, in her line of occupation – but nothing in her gaze was opaque when she looked at Lydia.

Another twirl and Stiles met Lydia’s eyes. It sufficed for Lydia to communicate her surprise about the latest _development_ ; him dancing in Hale’s arms.

Which abruptly reminded Stiles of his present company.

And what a company _that_ was.

Without quite meaning to, Stiles catalogued Hale’s features, from the strong jaw that always sported a hint of stubble to the thick eyebrows and those damned eyes of his, which poets would no doubt wax poetically over. Not that Stiles didn’t feel inspired to write a verse or two. Depending on the light, they seemed anything from green to grey to brown; they were mercurial in their ability to shift color. It was disarming to be on the receiving end of their gaze. During previous encounters, Stiles had been distracted by petty arguments; stripped of that possibility, he felt bare-naked as the recipient of Hale’s attention.

It didn’t help at all that Stiles was close enough to get an impression of Hale’s scent, which was unfairly attractive and appealing, just like everything else about the man, and eroded Stiles’ sense of caution, not to mention his wounded pride and residual resentment. It was deep and soothing, with just the right pinch of an recklessness-inspiring edge that made Stiles’ knees feel shaky.

They danced at a respectable distance, nothing vulgar or (God forbid) French about it, but with Hale’s eyes on him and their hands clasped together, it sure felt like an intimate affair.

It was also surprisingly effortless.

Hale was more eloquent a dancer than Stiles would have assumed and led well, anticipating Stiles’ movements and guiding him unobtrusively. Stiles was honest enough to admit that he benefitted from that; he was an enthusiastic dancer but hardly a graceful one.

For one idle moment, Stiles considered whether Hale’s eloquence also extended to other areas… would it be like this to take him to bed? To have that body press him into a mattress, to have those deft fingers unbutton his shirt?

It was an easy image to conjure. Too easy. Stiles tried to end that train of thought as quickly as possible. Dancing with Hale of all people was bad enough without soaking everyone in his vicinity in the scent of arousal.

“You surprise me, Mr. Hale,” he said.

Hale’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “I do?”

“You seem very fond of dancing. I didn’t anticipate that.”

“Ah yes.” Hale smiled wryly. “You assumed that I live for the letter of the law twenty-four hours a day.” 

“Suffice it to say you disabused me of that notion.” Stiles felt giddy as he spun on his own axis. “Now I think it’s only eight to ten hours a day, maximum.”

“I guess it’s progress,” Hale said with an exaggerated sigh.

Stiles laughed and was pleased to find Hale smile in return. He liked Hale’s smile, excessively even. If someone had told him he would be having a good time at the Fall Festival, dancing with the alpha... Stiles would have laughed until he’d been in stitches. And yet that was exactly what happened. The wonders never ceased!

He even felt safe, dancing with Hale, and that was a dangerous sentiment to have given how little he knew him. Then again, Stiles considered himself a good judge of people’s characters, and something about Hale just felt trustworthy and _right._

“Your secret identity is safe with me,” he told Hale, stage-whispering.

The alpha frowned. “Secret identity?”

“Notary by day, prize dancer by night.”

“I’m not that good a dancer,” Hale protested. Then he smirked. “Although I guess my present company makes me look better than I usually do.”

Stiles gasped. “Did you just insult me? I certainly feel insulted!” He said the last part in a ridiculously breathy way, like an omega lady about to faint on the dais.

“Absolutely not,” Hale said and rose one of Stiles’ hands to his lips, pressing the suggestion of a kiss against the glove. “The idea to demean you like _that_ would never cross my mind.”

Stiles’ heart fluttered wildly, catching the strange emphasis.

The smile on Hale’s lips faded slowly.

A few awkward moments passed before he said, roughly, “Mr. Raeken bothered you.” For the briefest of moments, Hale’s eyes flickered golden.

Surprise speared through Stiles, but the moment passed so quickly that he was certain it had only been a trick of the light. The glow of the lanterns above their heads, perhaps, swaying in the mild breeze.

“It seems to be the entire purpose of his existence,” Stiles said dryly. “Or at the very least a favorite pastime.” 

Mr. Hale dodged the attempt at levity. “Why were you completely alone?” he asked bluntly.

“Maybe I felt like it,” Stiles said and by God, he hated when he had to _explain_ himself. Something was draining out of him. Possibly the last shreds of his sanity. “Besides, this is the middle of the town square. I was hardly alone.”

“There are risks in being… without company,” Hale said.

As if Stiles didn’t know.

As if Stiles hadn’t been aware of these risks since he’d been a child, at an age where other children had still been concerned with fairy tales and made-up monsters in their closet. Being the Sheriff’s son had opened his eyes quickly to the way the world worked. What could happen to himself – and worse, his _reputation_ – was never far from his mind.

“If you’re talking about the dangers of a misdirected or coarse comment, I can handle myself just fine,” Stiles said pointedly.

“I’m not doubting that,” Hale replied. It was his misfortune that he didn’t stop talking right then and there. “But there are graver dangers to be considered.”

“There are? Consider me positively _shocked_. Do enlighten me, then.”

Mr. Hale began to flounder. Certain subjects were not to be broached with omegas, or if one had to do so, only in the vaguest of terms. This applied to all, regardless of age, but especially to the unmarried and virginal kind. “There have been… events lately… that make me worry about safety,” Hale stuttered. “In general. Some individuals always have bad intentions. One has to be mindful not to put oneself in harm’s way.”

Mindful.

Always, always, _Stiles_ had to be mindful.

And he was sick of it. Sick to his stomach. Sick to his core. Sometimes he wanted to scream so loudly he could still be heard on the moon. His whole _existence_ was centered on not putting himself in harm’s way, and preferably also out of the line of sight.

“Thank you for your sound advice. I struggle to find the words to tell you how much I appreciate them,” Stiles said, and put up a placid, stony front even as he felt ready to weep for reasons he couldn’t fully name. “And thank you for this dance.”

And with that, Stiles extricated his hand from Hale’s and turned around, leaving the dance floor even before the song had ended. He didn’t quite _flee_ the scene, but glances sure followed him and some couples had to move out of his way or risk brushing into him. Stiles didn’t look back and so missed whether Hale was looking after him forlornly or seething in anger; it mattered not. It turned out that Stiles’ preconceived notions about Hale weren’t far off the mark. He was just as controlling and unsympathetic as any other alpha Stiles ever had had the misfortune of crossing paths with.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of the etiquette book _[Complete and Esteemed Guide to Behaviors and Manners for a Proper Omega]_ is from [Blitzdrake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Blitzdrake/pseuds/Blitzdrake), who left a couple of hilarious comments on Stiles’ misadventures with etiquette on the last chapter!


	6. At the Turn of Seasons

  
  
  
Stiles stewed in resentment after the Fall Festival had gone pear-shaped; he found himself in the spell of a gloomy mood that refused to lift. His father saw right away that something was upsetting him. Since Stiles had no reason to keep the truth from him, and their relationship was one of closeness and confidence, he told him exactly what had happened. With Theo Raeken. And with Derek Hale.

The reaction was markedly different. His father was livid how Raeken had treated Stiles. He was aware that that the young alpha had developed an undue interest in his son, but so far Raeken had merely toed the line of good graces instead of leaping right over it. 

“Please just forget about it,” Stiles pleaded with him. He was tired of the entire affair. “There is nothing I would rather see than him getting his comeuppance, but you know any confrontation would get ugly, and more so for me than for him.”

“Stiles, he harassed you,” John said, his voice hard. “That’s no behavior fit for an alpha gentleman. I _can’t_ tolerate it.”

“And where are the witnesses, exactly? For the most part, it’s my word against his. Forgive me for being cynical, but many people wouldn’t see anything wrong with his behavior even if they had an exact transcript.” Something peculiar happened with young alphas such as Theo Raeken, who had the good fortune to posses handsomeness, money, and a high status; a nimbus surrounded them, a hazy golden glow, that made people willing to overlook the realities of their behavior in favor of the person they would _like_ to see. Raeken’s string of sordid affairs had certainly been overlooked. So long as someone like him inflicted his unpleasant sides only on people below his own status, or he acted discreetly enough, everyone was willing to turn a blind eye or two.

Everyone except the Sheriff, that was. “I can’t let his disgraceful behavior go unchallenged, Stiles. He was out of line. He needs to answer for his transgression.”

“There’s no law against callous remarks,” Stiles argued. “Everyone would leap to his defense. They’ll bring up how weird I am! They will say you neglected your duty as my guardian, or that I behaved reckless and egged him on! That he was helpless, being confronted with a vixen such as myself. Any possible explanation but the one that’s true.”

His father faltered. Stiles could see that he knew it to be the truth. He knew the legal system better than most anyone. He knew the judges. The attorneys. He knew the politics involved, since his appointment was a political matter; if he as the Sheriff went against Raeken officially, he would be accused of partiality – rarely a crime except in those cases where one went against the rich and influential.

“I’m going give him a stern talking to,” John decided. “Alpha to alpha. He _disrespected_ me and my household. He disrespected my _name_.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake…” Stiles exhaled unhappily; he saw that the conversation was effectively over. There would be no convincing his father to do otherwise.

Indeed, John paid the Raekens a visit. Afterwards he told his son that he had impressed upon the young alpha just how intolerable his behavior was. He looked confident and was self-assured that Raeken had understood the severity of his displeasure, but maybe that was only what he wanted to project. Stiles suspected Raeken to be all but immune to stern words.

Hale, however… Hale was a different story entirely. When Stiles told his father what Hale had done – jump to his _rescue_ , only to patronize him minutes later – his father was pleased more than anything. “Son.. he came to your defense. That’s a commendable thing to do!”

Stiles snorted. “He behaved like an overbearing grand-uncle, essentially telling me to take up knitting and stay home. He implied that it’s _my_ fault Raeken bothered me because I was _unaccompanied!_ ”

“You have pretty thin skin,” his father told him. “It doesn’t matter if he stepped on your toes with an ill-gotten remark or two. I know him; he’s a decent man and deserves my gratitude. He was probably agitated he had witnessed such a depravity, and thus uttered the wrong comment in the spur of the moment. Nothing to make such a fuss over.”

Stiles felt inclined to tear his hair out in frustration. “Nothing I’ve seen of Hale’s character so far indicates he’s worthy of praise! He’s short-tempered, of an ill disposition, and holds grudges like it’s his job!”

“Don’t _talk_ of him in that fashion,” John said in his sternest voice. It was a command; no way around it.

To Stiles’ growing horror, his father expressed his intent to invite Hale over for lunch the next Sunday. “I owe him my thanks,” John said. “And you, Mister, will behave in a _perfectly_ cordial manner.”

“We’ll see about that,” Stiles muttered under his breath. He felt mutinous with helpless anger.

“ _What_ was that?”

Stiles schooled his features in the most solemn expression he could muster. “I said, _absolutely_. I will be the very model of civility!”

John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “We will see about that, won’t we.”  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Fall was no time for idleness. That was a small consolation, at least, since it meant Stiles had opportunities to distract himself.

While the Festival lay behind them, there were other social events to prepare for, like the illustrious Yuletide Ball held at Whittemore Manor. The Ball was a who-knows-whom kind of affair, a mingling of polite society, and Stiles was always invited due to his father’s appointment as Sheriff as well as his mother’s gentle origins. In all truth it was a strenuous affair and cast a long shadow ahead of its time. So long, in fact, that Stiles had promised Lydia to meet her at her favorite tailor _weeks_ before the Ball took place. 

When Stiles arrived, the shop was buzzing with activity. It was faintly reminiscent of an agitated nest of wasps; clearly, a whole production was underway. Stiles had to evade harassed-looking assistants carrying stacks of cloth to and fro as he was led to the dressing room where Lydia was holding court. She was busy selecting the choices offered to her and greeted Stiles only in an absent-minded manner. The shop assistants were all young omegas, and so it didn’t matter that Lydia only wore her undergarments – all five hundred layers of them: the stockings and the white linen chemise, on top of which she was laced into her stays and wore her petticoat.

Apparently, Lydia was quite satisfied with the stacks of cloths that had been offered to her. She relieved the assistants of their duty for the moment and softly closed the door behind them. It was suddenly much quieter in the small room.

“Do you think this is my color?” Lydia asked as she picked a cloth of shimmery white material and held it against her chest. She scrutinized her reflection in the full-length mirrors that lined the room’s walls.

“Everything is your color,” Stiles said teasingly. “White is a particular statement though. You might look like a debutante.”

“Isn’t that the perfect aspiration?” Lydia asked with a sardonic smile. “Anyway, it’s definitely not _your_ color. Not after that scene you caused at the Fall Festival.”

“Excuse me? I didn’t cause a scene!”

“Oh darling.” Lydia bestowed a pitying smile on Stiles that told him in no uncertain terms he was acting a fool, which was no fetching look on him. “You danced with Derek Hale. That alone is enough cause for curiosity; there are matriarchs who would give their left arm to have their offspring marry into the Hale family. Wealth, respectability, and _those looks_? People have killed for less.”

“Now you’re being overly dramatic.” Stiles laughed nervously, uncomfortable with the direction their conversation was heading in.

“Derek has been on the market for ages, which is not surprising given how categorically uninterested he seems in romantic attachments. Of course people noticed him dancing with you!”

“You’re assessment couldn’t be more mistaken, Lydia!” The idea was so ludicrous it was laughable. Him and _Hale_ , of all people? No. Plain no. Stiles felt backed into a corner and told Lydia the entire story, tired as he was of it at this point. They had not danced together because of any romantic attachment or an interest in such. Hale had taken pity on him, and then ruined his noble gesture by opening his mouth. 

“Theo Raeken is a blight on humanity,” Lydia decided afterwards. “If he’s not harassing any barmaid who crosses his path, he’s gambling away his family’s fortune. Useless as they come. As for Mr. Hale…” She sniffed. “Disappointing.”

Stiles shrugged. He wasn’t disappointed by Derek, definitively not; that would only have been a possibility if he had held the alpha in high esteem prior to his ill-gotten remarks. “How are you and Braeden doing?” he asked in an effort to change the subject.

“Reasonably well... if you consider that we’ve broken off the courtship,” Lydia said.

“ _What?_ ” Stiles asked. For a moment, he thought his hearing had failed him.

“You heard right. I ended the courtship. However, we still respect each other, and I assume we shall do so for the rest of our lives. There’s no bad blood between us.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Stiles felt thunderstruck. “But you said you were going to get married!”

“Don’t be silly,” Lydia said briskly. “I would never consider marrying someone whose station in life is so decidedly beneath my own. I know it’s not a romantic sentiment, but Braeden has little to offer me.” Lydia looked at herself in the mirror while she said talked, as if she was telling herself those sentiments rather than Stiles.

Stiles clutched her shoulders. “ _Lydia_. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” she said tonelessly.

“Yes, you are! I don’t give a damn who you’re lying to, you could lie to the whole wide world for all that it matters to me, but don’t lie to me. _Please_. Never to _me_.”

Lydia was quiet for a long, long moment. It seemed she would stay mute until she exhaled a shuddering breath and lowered her voice. “My parents found Braeden wildly unsuitable for me and _advised_ me to put an end to the courtship. If I didn’t, they promised to… well, pin something on her. Prosecute her. They found out Braeden had taught me to ride like an alpha and use throwing knives as well as a bow, lessons in tracking and investigation… all of which is highly inappropriate, as I needn’t mention.” 

Lydia picked a flowy piece of cloth from the table and held it against herself. The Champagne color complimented her features and gave her a softer look. Dewy and innocent, like a well-chosen word would make a blush rise to her cheeks. Lydia’s beauty alone would have elicited enough interested, but if you also factored in how well she was able to mold herself to whatever space had been carved out for her… her company would be much sought-after at the Ball, and no wonder. For all her life, she had been groomed to be the jewel in someone’s crown.

“Lydia…” Stiles said.

“I like the finer things in life,” she said as her fingers brushed over the delicate fabric, testing its texture. “My parents pointed out that I’m not well suited for a vagabond life, to uncertainties and hard times, and rightly so. I need my comforts, and if those are denied to me… well, bitterness would inevitably creep in.”

That explanation didn’t satisfy Stiles in the least. “So you’d rather wed some pompous asshole for the sake of appearances, someone you don’t cherish half as much as Braeden?”

“Infatuation always fades in the end. That kind of _love_ is fleeting and treacherous.” Lydia smiled mirthlessly. “I have to make the sensible choice here.”

“There’s nothing sensible about marrying a person you _tolerate_ at best,” Stiles said hotly.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “I’d love to be irresponsible, but that’s not the world we live in! I hardly have a second attempt if the marriage doesn’t work out, I would be a shop-worn commodity. I have no means to support myself independently. No place to call my own. The vast share of my family’s wealth will go to my younger brother and sister. If I don’t marry well, I will have to rely on their goodwill to see me through life, and Lord knows I don’t want that! Those brats are infuriating enough as it is right now. They think can boss me around when they’ve hardly entered their teens.”

“ _Lydia_ ,” Stiles said beseechingly. “You’re the smartest person I know. I think you could take on the world if you wanted to. You will make your way in the end, I _know_ it!”

“No, I won’t,” Lydia said with a tight voice.

She clearly didn’t want to hear that other options existed, difficult as those may be. Her hands were trembling slightly, in an uncharacteristic display of nerves. Stiles decided to push her once more. “You’re the last person I would ever have suspected of cowardice.”

Fire blazed in Lydia’s eyes. “ _Grow up_ , Stiles! We can’t all have an inheritance to rely on. You tell me that there’s another way, but it’s not like you have found it yet, have you? You mope your days away and entertain illusions of grandeur with your _scientific_ books and whatnot. Being an adult means accepting all that which you cannot change. It means playing the game – working within its frameset to yield the best of results! Don’t you dare patronize me.” Lydia scoffed. “You’re the immature one in this equation. Please! Pathologically and pathetically unhappy with your lot in life despite the fact that you’re luckier than almost anyone.”

Stiles reeled back as if he’d been struck. “That’s what you think of me?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Lydia said. “The truth usually hurts.”  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Naturally, Stiles took it personally. It was rare that he and Lydia quarreled, as they saw each other not only as friends but also as allies and confidantes. Falling out with her hurt Stiles on a fundamental level. He went back and forth between contemplating the truth in her words and feeling righteous in his anger. Lydia was just as fond of books as he was, if not more so! No one in school had been able to translate Latin and Greek with the ease she had, or solve math problems just as quickly. And yet Lydia had never sought recognition for her feats. She hadn’t lied in that regard. She _did_ play by the rules, and well at that.

There was no way around it: Stiles’ spirits were low and not helped at all by the prospect of Hale’s visit. He felt as miserable as a trapped animal with no prospects of freedom. It seemed the Fall Festival had truly marked the beginning of the season. These days, the sun was a milky orb veiled by clouds. The lack of bright sunshine made all the colors seem greyish and muted, and the fog didn’t help these matters either. Stiles still ventured outside one afternoon, however, bundled in layers of clothes and wrapped in his kitten quilt. He made himself comfortable on the bench that overlooked the little fish pond. Soon it would be too cold to go outside for longer periods of time, so it was best to use the opportunities that presented themselves. Besides, Stiles also found beauty in the bleakness. The fog painted everything in soft, blurred contours, and gave the wilderness of the garden – its shrubs and trees, its stone statues overgrown with ivy – a dreamlike quality. It was a peaceful place; Stiles’ own little world where no one could disturb him. And he had Deaton’s book to keep him company, which was a great source of comfort. He fervently wished to learn more about wolves and understand what had happened the other night.

All of Deaton’s books were about the animal in some regard, but in their approach and outlook they were vastly different. A couple were written in the spirit of the natural sciences, and while Stiles appreciated that, he didn’t find them illuminating. None of them could explain why the black wolf had behaved in that friendly manner the other day. The fairy tales, fables, and history books were much more interesting. 

The wolf appeared in countless stories, some as old as Aesop’s, and most often he was portrayed as a deceptive and dangerous creature. But even back in Antiquity, not all had derided the wolf. The Romans had likened their alpha heroes to furious wolves, and small wonder; they had seen the animal as associated to Mars, the god of war. Rome itself was said to be founded by two abandoned brothers who had been raised by a she-wolf as her own cubs. Subsequently the _Lupa Romana_ had come to symbolize Roman rule throughout all of the empire, and sculptures of the she-wolf had been erected by all those who wanted to express loyalty to Rome. Unlike many others, the Romans had refrained from intentionally harming wolves and hadn’t hunted them for pleasure.

It was an intriguing reading matter. When Stiles was halfway through the fifth chapter, however, he felt a prickling sensation on his neck… an uneasy sensation, as if he was being watched. Come to think of it, it was _unusually_ quiet, and had been for the last minutes. No bird calls whatsoever. His heart beating faster, Stiles looked around as surreptitiously as he could. He saw no one. That was no relief to him, though, as he still felt observed.

One of the larger shrubs in the garden suddenly began to tremble. Stiles watched in astonishment as a large black wolf slowly emerged from it. _The_ wolf! _His_ wolf! It looked even more imposing than it had the other night, now that the daylight illuminated its ink-black features. It stood motionless and regarded Stiles calmly, gauging his reaction.

Stiles was – well, surprised. And thrilled! “Hey pal! What are you doing here?”

That seemed to be the cue the wolf had waited for. It came closer on quiet paws; careful still, as if Stiles might bolt with the wrong move. No, not _it_ , Stiles corrected himself – _he_. In daylight, it was clear to see that the wolf was male. With his ears flat back, his tail tucked between the legs and his slinking, slumping body posture, he looked the very picture of shame. He sat down near Stiles’ bench, hanging his head.

Stiles laughed. “What are you looking like that for?” He extended a hand, a little less careful than the other night, and gently petted the wolf’s massive head. It seemed to enjoy the administration – particularly the ear scratches – but still looked at Stiles somewhat mournfully. “You look like you ate my homework,” Stiles said. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t do that, not least of which because I haven’t had to do any for quite some time now.”

The wolf huffed.

“It’s alright,” Stiles said. “I’m happy you’re here. Perfect timing, really.” He motioned to the stack of books on the park bench. “Those are all about you.”

The wolf’s ears perked up. He regarded the books with interest, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed at them.

Stiles laughed; the view was fairly endearing. He grabbed one of drier, more science-minded books and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for: a comparison of wolves and dogs. Perhaps this wolf wasn’t a wolf at all, just a dog that looked like one. Or a wolf-dog hybrid! Stiles supposed he could also have been raised by humans; there _had_ to be a reason why he was so tame and docile.

Mumbling to himself, Stiles began to read the list of defining differences. “ _Keel-chested, with narrow sternums… bigger in size, right down to the paws…_ well, I could have told them that… … _a longer, heavier muzzle_ …” Stiles studied the wolf in front of him. “Yes, yes, and yes. Quite a big muzzle you’ve got there, pal. _Amber and yellow eyes are much more common… the most defining characteristic… the size of its head, which is much larger than that of its domesticated brethren_.” Stiles looked at the wolf critically. “You do have a very large head, if you don’t mind me saying. Although I guess it’s a necessity to house that large ego, right?” Stiles laughed.

The wolf regarded Stiles through half-closed eyes; he seemed miffed, as if he found the joke in poor taste. But he did have a large head, and larger still because his fur was so thick around his neck. A little bit like a mane, almost. “Well… I think the evidence is quite clear. You’re a wolf,” Stiles told the wolf.

The animal didn’t look very impressed with this analysis.

“Forgive me not being a zoologist,” Stiles said good-naturedly. He turned to his book again, picking up the one he had read before the interruption. The one about the role of the wolf in myths and mythology. Stiles learned that the wolf was still revered in some places; that wasn’t strictly a thing of the past. He ruffled the wolf’s fur, who had come to lie at his feet. “Did you know that the Turkic people believe they’re derived from a female wolf with a sky-blue mane, Asena? They believe she gave birth to half-wolf, half-human creatures.”

The wolf looked up at him.

“True fact! I bet you wish you had a sky-blue mane.” Stiles stopped for a moment to think about something Lydia had told him, a little fact he hadn’t paid much attention to at the time. “And you know what Braeden said? She’s travelled as far up north as the Western coast of the British Possessions and encountered a couple of different tribes on her travels. She said that the Kwakiutl people believe their ancestors became human by taking off their wolf masks.” The wolf’s ears flicked back. He ignored Stiles’ attempt to beckon him on the bench; it seemed he wasn’t fond of an impromptu cuddle session and shied away from too much body contact. Stiles told his unwitting audience what Braeden had relayed of the Pawnee people and their connection to wolves, which was so deep that the hand signal for _Pawnee_ was actually the same as the one for the animal.

Strangely enough, the wolf seemed to listen. There was something extraordinary aware and intelligent about the animal; Stiles had the impression he understood every word. That couldn’t be the case, and rationally Stiles knew that… it was the fault of human’s, really, that they saw themselves reflected everywhere and interpreted an animal’s behavior in human terms.

Stiles opened another book, one about the Dark Ages, and read excerpts from it aloud. The wolf sighed after a short while and rose to his feet. It seemed his patience with human gibberish had run out. Stiles watched him wander off and explore the garden at a leisured pace, sniffing at whatever caught his attention.

Well, his loss. The book was _fascinating_. With the rise of Christianity, the wolf’s reputation had taken a decidedly darker turn in Europe and beyond. Jesus explained the relationship to his followers as that of a good shepherd protecting his flock from wolves. Subsequent Christian teachings expanded on that metaphor, and so the wolf came to represent an agent of the devil, set out to punish the wicked. Stiles learned that the belief in _“lycanthropes”_ – werewolves, or hybrid human-wolf people – had been present in the world as long as mankind remembered, but had spread considerably during the Dark Ages. Werewolves were thought to roam the streets at night, gorging themselves on the flesh of their innocent victims, which were slain in orgies of satanic cruelty… A werewolf was a creature of sin; born of greed, gluttony, lust or other dark impulses. When hundred-thousands of “witches” were persecuted with the _Malleus Maleficarum_ , omegas more often than not, there were also those unfortunate alphas and betas who were accused of being a werewolf and burned at the stake for that crime.

Small wonder then that the wolf featured prominently in European fairy tales, and most often accompanied by the words _big_ and _bad_. Wilhelm Grimm, whose books were flying off the shelves, called the wolf ‘the evilest animal of all’. Even the origin of the word bore witness to the prejudice against the creature: warg in Old High German was no other term than that for murderer, strangler, slayer, and evil spirit; to be declared a “warg” was to be outlawed from society. 

Wolves had been identified as a threat in rural Europe for the longest time. In France, the elite corps of the _luparii_ had been founded in the ninth century and were still active these days, killing over a thousand wolves each year. The job payed handsomely; _luparii_ earned the equivalent of other people’s monthly earnings with each wolf kill. In Spain, it were the _lobero_ who hunted wolves. In Sweden, wolf hunting was decreed to be a civic duty of which only parish clerks and the infirm were relieved. Even the omegas were called to arms! Stiles _loved_ that part. He might have entertained the fantasy of being a wolf hunter himself, for a brief moment. There was undeniably some allure to the idea. But then Stiles watched his wolf, on the other side of the garden – and when had the animal acquired the possessive pronoun, exactly? – and knew he wouldn’t be able to do that.

He sighed and got up, venturing over to the animal. The wolf was sniffing the ground with interest and determination. Stiles remembered he had displayed the same behavior the other night, although in a more aggressive manner. It served as a useful reminder that Stiles was not even close to understanding the animal yet. He crouched down. “Hey pal… come over here…”

The wolf actually perked up and came over. It was truly a majestic animal. Stiles had no doubt the animal could be a ferocious predator, and maybe there was some truth to people’s fear of them, but right now… Stiles couldn’t fathom why anyone would consider wolves _demonic_ , or hunt them down without mercy. He ruffled the wolf’s thick neck hair. “You don’t gorge yourself on the flesh of your innocent victims, do you?”

The wolf cocked his head.

Stiles laughed quietly to himself. “Just checking if you’re a werewolf. Didn’t think so.” More solemnly, he said, “You know what? Should the _luparii_ ever be after your hide, I will protect you to the best of my abilities.”

The wolf whined quietly – and then licked the back of Stiles’ hand.

“Ugh!” Stiles couldn’t believe he had just gotten his hand slobbered over by a wild beast. He wiped it clean on his pants. “I take everything back!”

That seemed to amuse the wolf, whose tail wagged like that of a dog for a moment.

Maybe it was a ridiculous notion to have, but Stiles had the impression he’d found an unlikely friend in the animal. He felt moved, and not only because he could use a friend right now.

Stiles finally had to go inside when dusk began to settle and the chill grew more pronounced. He was sad, though, to watch the wolf leave. The animal wound through the shrubs and tall grass before slipping through the hedge and vanishing from sight. Since Stiles’ father worked late yet again, Stiles had the house to himself. He brewed tea, lit a candle and did what he had done before; devouring information like a starving man.

Stiles had saved the weirdest book for last, the one about the _Lycanthropic Wolf Malady_. It was written by an alpha explorer who claimed she’d discovered werewolves on her travels through the tundra. She’d been surprised by the onslaught of the Siberian winter when she’d visited a remote village (and what an unfortunate winter to be surprised by!) and had subsequently been cut off from the rest of the world for the better part of eight months. While living amongst the village folk, she had noticed strange, peculiar details about them; little irregularities that were hard to explain. Until the villagers had come to trust her and confided in her: they were men and women who could shift into actual wolves as well as terrible, wolf-like creatures with fangs the size of daggers and eyes that glowed like the last pieces of dying embers. The wonder was evident in the forceful, excited lines of the explorer’s writing. With zeal, she described the werewolves’ heightened senses, their agility and physical prowess, not to mention their cunning, all of which rendered them the perfect predator. Even their healing was enhanced, which meant the most grievous wounds could mend in the blink of an eye. And that was not where the oddities ended! The village was led by a couple, an alpha woman and an omega man, and the explorer described them as entirely equal in their standing and authority. All of the villagers were, in their own manner. Their sex mattered little when it came to their roles in the community. Betas could outrank alphas in the wolf pack, as could omegas.

What she described was nothing less than _complete anarchy_.

Stiles snorted as he closed the book. He couldn’t suspend his disbelief _that_ much. The book was intriguing reading matter to be sure, but he was more likely to hear truths from a sailor six bottles deep into a drunken stupor. He entertained the thought for a moment nonetheless, that outrageous idea that monsters in human skin lived among them… but no, he wasn’t like to believe it. His was a world of mundane happenings, and one harebrained adventure with a surprisingly friendly canine didn’t change that one iota.

Still… the truth was, he rather enjoyed the company of his very own pet wolf and hoped he would return.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
With each passing day, the weather got stormier. The wind ripped the leaves from the trees and left the bare branches to shiver in the wind. With regret, Stiles thought of the ivegon plants that were somewhere out there in the forest and that would surely not outlast a weather this hostile. When Sunday rolled around, Stiles begrudgingly prepared for Hale’s visit, cooking an elaborate meal whose crowning glory was the roast pig in apple-rum sauce. It was a pity that the alpha had accepted his father’s invitation. At least the weather was considerate enough to reflect Stiles’ mood. All day, rain had relentlessly drummed against the windows. The light was dim and gloomy even though it was nearly noon, and the clouds were turning darker by the minute. It seemed a storm was gathering. Stiles put candles on the dining table that bathed everything in a warm but flickering and unsteady light.

Hale had to apologize for the state he was in when he arrived. Even having taken a carriage, he was dripping rivulets of rainwater onto their floor. John took his coat and helped him to some towels so he could dry his hair.

“Mr. Stilinski.” Hale bowed.

Stiles felt those unnerving pale eyes on him – eyes that were asking a question, trying to take his measure. He returned his greeting dutifully and with as much warmth as he could muster (which was not a lot). The last days he’d pondered whether his reaction had been overblown and embarrassed them both in the process, or if Stiles had been right to take offense. He still wasn’t sure about it. He only knew what he _felt_ , and that feeling was quite clear.

It was downright strange to have Hale here, in their dining room – standing next to old vases Stiles’ mother had so favored, next to her portraits and the cupboard with her best china. In the last weeks he had had often been present in Stiles’ thoughts and his occasional rants, and now seemed at odds with his surroundings: more innocuous than he had been made out to be, and yet still an intruder, someone disturbing the peace of their home. A good deal of apprehension could be glimpsed in Hale’s stiffness, in his ramrod spine.

During the lunch Stiles was quiet, at least for his standards. His father and Hale spoke about matters of the town, about Talia’s work as a counselor and Derek’s work as a notary, both of which overlapped considerably with John’s area of authority. Whenever the conversation was directed his way, Stiles expressed agreement with whatever had been stated previously. It was actually quite easy to sail through a conversation that way. “Perfect point… well, I hadn’t considered… but now that you mention it… oh yes, I agree. I’m not well versed in that area, not at all… some more apple-rum sauce?”

Hale was rather stiff; perhaps he would never be as polished or gregarious as other gentlemen alphas. But John appeared to like that quality about him, that lack of affectation which hinted at earnestness. Stiles had to admit that Hale didn’t seem like the bad sort, at least if this was your only behavioral sample to go by. He often felt Hale’s eyes on him, fleetingly – questioningly – but Stiles looked down at the food, at the table, at the window… anything to avoid meeting his eyes. Every other minute thunder could be heard from afar, growling like a disgruntled beast. The storm seemed to gather strength and grow worse still.

For a shuddering moment, Stiles wondered whether his father pursued a second agenda with this lunch, which after all fell on a _Sunday_. Did he consider Hale a possible suitor? Was he trying to _set Stiles up?_ What a troubling thought. His father had never shown himself inclined to force Stiles into a marriage, but legally he could; Stiles’ will and wishes didn’t factor into it. Technically he was considered adjunct property to the Sheriff, who could pass him on to another alpha if it pleased him. Stiles’ autonomy hang on a spindly threat, namely the lucky circumstances of his birth and his father’s continuous good-will and patience. With sorrow, Stiles thought of Lydia. Her assessment hadn’t been wrong in that regard. She would enter matrimony with little wealth to her own name, and her financial future would be dependent on how clever and comprehensive the settlements before her marriage were. Poverty in widowhood or old age (whichever came first) were indeed a looming possibility if she didn’t play her cards right.

Stiles’ grim musings were interrupted when a bell rang. The clear sound cut straight through the conversation at the table.

Its cause was easily identified: a dove had perched itself on the small wooden ledge outside the East-facing window. It was an ingenious device, really: the ledge was connected with a cord, which in turn led into the room and could tug at a bell mounted at the wall. The contraption ensured that the bell would ring once the ledge was depressed.

“My apologies,” John said as he went over to open the window to let the dove in, which fluttered wildly in a circle and then landed on the back of an empty chair. A tiny roll of paper had been attached to one of its legs. Carrier pigeons were the quickest form of communication available to the law enforcement but weren’t employed too often, which meant something dire must have happened. Stiles felt the usual sort of queasiness in his stomach area when something _unexpected_ happened that concerned his father.

The lines on John’s forehead deepened in worry as he read the brief message. “There is an urgent business I must attend to. Stiles, may I talk to you for a moment?”

Stiles followed his father into his study, closing the door behind him. “What does the message say?”

“Not much,” his father said. “Constable Mahealani didn’t give any specifics. Only that I should go immediately; that no delay can be tolerated.” He sighed heavily. “This means you’ll either stay here alone or in the company of Mr. Hale. I would be inclined to the former option if not for current circumstances, in which I would rather not leave you all by yourself. Do you feel comfortable being alone with him?”

It was a breach of etiquette, certainly. They shared no relations and were both unwed. And yet Mr. Hale enjoyed an unfailingly good reputation and if he were entrusted by the Sheriff…

“I trust him,” Stiles said. And this was actually the truth, despite their previous disagreements. Considering Hale a _jerk_ was one thing, considering him untrustworthy quite another. 

John seemed relieved. “Well then. I will ask him if he’ll be so kind as to keep you company. I promise I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

They both knew there was no telling when that would be. A lack of predictability was the nature of emergencies. Stiles hugged his father and silently prayed that it would be soon. “Take care.”  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter into two parts because it was getting WAY too long. -_- Also, please note that I’ll be ignoring about 80% of the TW werewolf lore because it’s completely random and doesn’t make sense. I might add new werewolf powers though. 
> 
> There’s also a lot of exposition going on, but I find the whole mythology angle just fascinating, so fight me! (ง'̀-'́)ง ~~[Actually, don’t do that. Please.]~~ The belief in different species of humans used to be widespread, for example - among them the Cynocephali, the “dog-headed people”, to whom[ Saint Christopher](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m9ox5bn5ru1r81rabo1_500.png) supposedly belonged. How. Awesome. Is. That. Also, anti-wolf sentiment was common in Europe for the longest time, but what I didn’t mention is that it’s not entirely surprising – apparently 7.600 fatal wolf attacks were documented in France alone between 1200-1920 (a fatal wolf attack every 35 days, for all my number nerds). Usually wolves shy away from humans, but they may lose their fear after long periods of habituation. [ (Plus there were a couple of other factors at work.)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolf_attacks_on_humans)
> 
> **PSA** : There will be two more chapters before the first arc of the story is finished. I plan to take a little writing break after that – as in, a break _to_ write, not _from_ writing. It’s possible to post a chapter every two weeks, but for my own sanity and comfort I’d like to build up a little reserve. Plus, the story benefits from it. I wrote the first chapters en bloc and that really helped to make them more cohesive, especially when I developed an idea in later chapters and then went back to earlier ones to slowly introduce it. 
> 
> All in all I’m OVERWHELMED by the response to this fic. I don’t think I’ve ever had as much fun writing anything! Every kudo and comment has multiplied my motivation. Thank you, dear readers. You’re the best.


	7. Unmasked

  
  
  
With his father was gone, Stiles was left behind in an awkward position. He hadn’t participated much in the conversation so far, had in fact even taken himself out of the discussion as propriety permitted, and that option was all but nonexistent anymore. The next hours were bound to feel long. For a brief moment, Stiles considered citing a headache and going upstairs to get some rest. But that would leave Hale completely alone, like an unwitting guard dog, and was an impoliteness so grave even Stiles couldn’t imagine inflicting it on Hale. 

Instead, Stiles went to put a kettle on the stove and made them tea. That had always been his mother’s first action when John had been called away on emergencies. _I can’t imagine there being one thing that gets worse with tea_ , Claudia had said. _Let’s make a cup, shall we?_ The storm outside was still raging and seemed, in fact, more potent than ever. Lightning illuminated the sky in a flash of blinding light every so often, and roaring thunder followed not long behind. The rain hammered against the kitchen window and blurred the outside world from Stiles’ view. His thoughts were with his father, who had the misfortune of being out and about; how easily a horse could trip and break its ankle in such conditions, and how easily his father could be waylaid by whoever meant him harm… Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. _No_. He would _not_ think about it such a manner. His father _would_ be fine. He willed it to be so; willed his continued well-being into existence.

It was in an understandably absent-minded fashion that Stiles led Hale to the small sitting area in front of the empty fire place, where high armchairs promised a cozy retreat, and served tea first to his guest and then to himself. As an afterthought – considering how dim the light in this part of the room was, and how intimate the little sit-together could be regarded by the wrong eyes – he went and took some candles off the dinner table to place them on the mantelpiece. That was slightly better, at least; the flames flickered and dutifully illuminated their surroundings. Hale stirred his cup of tea until ribbons of translucent steam rose and the scent of peppermint spread the air like a trail of pleasant perfume. Stiles could find little comfort in the fragrance, however. His throat constricted with an all-familiar anxiety. It was a terrible fate, being condemned to waiting. He felt so utterly, maddeningly _useless._

“You’ve been quiet today,” Hale commented as he took a careful sip of tea.

“I imagine you appreciate the reprieve,” Stiles said after a small pause, struggling with a suitable response. “Considering how well all of our other conversations went.”

Hale frowned. “No. I appreciate you talking a lot more than you being silent.” He smiled at Stiles in a conspiring manner. “And that _is_ saying something, I feel.”

The last part was said in jest and good humor, but Stiles didn’t feel ready to join in on the amusement. The events at the Fall Festival had been wearing heavily on him and as a result he felt _tired_. It was a weariness that he may as well have been born with for how familiar it was to him. It went down to the bones, and deeper still.

“About the other day…” Hale said.

Stiles startled. “Yes?”

“You were angry,” Hale said. “Because I suggested… that there are dangers in being alone.”

Stiles groaned. “Yes. God damn, _yes_. I’m just so very tired of it all.” To hell with decorum. To hell with is filter, strained as it was at the best of times. “I can’t even attend the Fall Festival without a brute like Raeken taking advantage of my supposedly delicate nature, and me being entirely blamed for it. I’m tired, Mr. Hale. Consider yourself fortunate that you may never understand what that feels like.”

Hale folded his hands awkwardly. “Mr. Stilinski, I misspoke. I’m sorry for giving you the impression that I faulted you, because you’re – you’re an omega and were without company in that moment when Raeken…” – Hale’s face did something complicated – “…accosted you. I didn’t mean to fault you; my words were poorly chosen.”

“That they were,” Stiles agreed.

“I apologize sincerely.” 

“You _apologize_ ,” Stiles repeated.

“Yes.”

“Consider me astonished. It’s not often that alphas apologize for exercising what most would consider their good right; to protect those weaker than themselves, at their discretion and foresight.”

Hale looked alarmed. “I understand that you may have been in the regrettable position of making bad experiences, but I implore you not to judge me harshly in their light. I consider everyone my equal, omegas and betas alike. A single verbal mishap doesn’t change that.”

That gave Stiles pause; seldom were such words uttered by someone as genteel and well-regarded as the alpha in front of him. “I never would have assumed you to be radical,” Stiles said snidely, halfway to an ugly laugh. “I didn’t know we had a champion of omega rights in our midst! Imagine that.”

“Those aren’t just words – it is what I live by,” Hale defended himself. “And I have good reasons for feeling the way I do, even if I grant you may not know of them.”

“I see,” Stiles said, although he didn’t. He didn’t know what game Hale was playing, but he was intent not be made a fool by him. “Yet the Scripture teaches us that the omega was created for the alpha, but not the alpha for the omega. Those are sanctified words, aren’t they? _I suffer not an omega to teach, nor to usurp authority over those above them, but to silence_. And let’s not forget what the clergy are teaching left and right, each Sunday and every day in between: that omegas should have no greater ambition than obedience, a clean home well in order, and as many children as they are possibly capable of bearing. They should fear their alphas as their alpha fears the Lord, and submit to him or her accordingly. You tell me you don’t share those beliefs?”

“That is exactly – _precisely_ – what I am telling you,” Hale said. “Those aren’t the convictions I live by. Intelligence, strength, the capacity for care and consideration, an ability to lead, humor, creativity – none of these qualities have a gender. I don’t consider omegas unfit for the domains of alphas and betas, and neither do I think there’s shame or inferiority in the skills for which omegas are usually prized.”

Stiles cursed himself when a tiny seed of doubt took root in his mind. Maybe Hale _was_ telling the truth after all, unlikely as that scenario was. “Mr. Hale, you’re a riddle. Every time I believe to know your measure, you rattle the foundations of my confidence.”

That charmed a faint smile to Hale’s features. “That may well be the case,” he admitted. “Although you might have spared yourself some trouble by assuming less at first glance.”

Stiles scoffed, yet did not rebuke the accusation, which all who knew him well would have regarded as a clear admission of guilt. “Will you enlighten me, then, and tell me why you entertain such radical notions? Take pity on me and alleviate my disadvantage.”

“If I told you, there wouldn’t be much of an enigma left,” Hale pointed out. “That would entirely defeat the purpose, I feel.”

Stiles grudgingly had to agree with that logic. “Perhaps.” He was quiet for a moment before he remembered some words of Hale, belatedly, that had given him pause. “You actually _heard_ what Mr. Raeken said to me? His remarks…?”

Hale grimaced. “I was passing by and couldn’t help overhearing him. His callousness… was not to be tolerated.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said softly. His faith in Hale’s words grew, it was undeniable. “Your help… in honesty – it was appreciated.”

Hale looked down, and his eyebrows drew together as if in stern consternation. “It was nothing.”

“Hmm…” Stiles uttered. “Even little gestures might cast long shadows.”

They both struggled to come up with a natural segue in their conversation after that, and so silence descended on the room. Perhaps they were both equally to blame for the awkwardness, after confessions so emotional, and which for sure that didn’t bear the faintest resemblance to polite after-dinner conversation. Stiles took undue interest in his cup of tea, then, and Hale did likewise with his own. Stiles was again struck by the thought of how _inappropriate_ this arrangement was; being alone and seated only a couple of feet apart. To be excused by the circumstances, certainly, but still something a chaperone faint at heart would have felt fluttery about. One had to think of the _possibilities._ One had to think of the _appearance!_ Oh, how Stiles' old etiquette teacher would have scolded him, especially if she could have observed him inhale more deeply just now – to catch that trace of Hale’s scent, so deep and rich he wanted to just _breathe_ it in – like a creature of little rationality on the cusp of heat…

Which did _not_ bear thinking about.

Stiles could admit he felt some attraction to Hale, now and then, a spark of friction alternatively fanned or stamped out by that strange back-and-forth dance they were engaged in, which was stumbling and inept rather than elegant and eloquent in nature. Given Hale’s astounding physique, surely no one would fault him for being _appreciative_. That did not necessarily mean more than it had to; Stiles still did not know nearly enough about the man. However, with his recent remarks… one should consider Stiles’ interest well piqued. He had an enigma to unravel, after all.

Something about Hale was very enigmatic, even when he was engaged in an activity as mundane as drinking tea. Something about him was _peculiar_. He seemed like a perfectly fine specimen of an alpha gentleman on the surface, but that wasn’t all there had to be to it…. the thought gave Stiles pause. It was true that Hale looked a bit _confined_ , perhaps, in the manner muscular men were wont to when they wore a slightly too-small Sunday suit. Stiles wouldn’t usually have pursued this line of thought if he hadn’t seen Hale wearing that linen shirt on the day he’d visited Erica and Boyd. Maybe he was used to a more casual attire outside of his business hours? But no, certainly that wasn’t it. It was more that Hale… was not as still as could be reasonably expected. The way he sometimes angled his head a little – and his ears twitched in minuscule movements – seemed like he was listening to something, perhaps something far away.

It was like looking at a picture that you were certain you knew fairly well, only to have your attention drawn to an odd detail and suddenly the picture _shifted_ so much you didn’t recognize it anymore. Suddenly it looked foreign and alien. 

“Is something the matter?” Hale asked; he caught Stiles’ gaze and reflected it on him.

Stiles looked down quickly, embarrassed by his rudeness. “No, no. Everything is quite alright.”

Whether Hale believed that couldn’t be determined one way or another. In an apparent attempt to fumble for a conversation topic, Hale said, “Is the Sheriff often away on emergency business?”

Stiles shrugged. “Too often, truth to be told.” He looked out of the window, where the weather was still raging with a vehemence that seemed spiteful in nature. The rain was hammering against the windows without granting a moment of reprieve; it was torrential and punishing. Lightning struck maybe a mile or so in the distance, and Stiles startled at the crashing volume of the thunder. Hale startled far worse, however. His full-body flinch gave Stiles a small amount of satisfaction, as it let him entertain the notion that he was made of sterner stuff than the hulking mountain of muscles currently seated on his mother’s upholstery.

The sentiment vanished quickly enough when Stiles thought of his father, and how he might fare in the weather. Again he wondered what emergency could have possibly required his presence in these conditions...

 _He is safe_ , Stiles told himself. _He is safe and he will stay safe. There can be no doubt. My father will not be harmed._

“You worry…” Hale said quietly.

Stiles swallowed around the clump in this throat. “Indeed. I can’t deny it.” His mind drifted whenever he wasn’t distracted enough. “I wonder how much time has passed.”

Hale angled his head slightly. “The pendulum clock down the hall has stopped working.”

“It has?” Stiles asked, perplexed. “It was working just fine at noon.”

“I know, I remember – but you don’t hear it anymore, do you?”

That was true. Stiles could hear no ticking, however faint. But he hadn’t all day, given how inconsiderately loud that ghastly weather was. If Hale had been more soft-spoken, he probably wouldn’t have heard him either. On a whim, Stiles grabbed a candle and went to the adjunct sitting room. The flame danced nervously as it shone light on the sturdy clock, whose hands had indeed been frozen in movement. Shortly after half past one, it must have stopped working. “Huh… look at that.”

When Stiles went back to the other room, he found Hale’s eyes trained on him the second he entered it. “You were right.” Stiles told him. “You must have _exceptionally_ good hearing.”

“I have been told that, yes,” Hale said. He was aiming for a tone of indifference, it appeared, but missed it by a mile wide. His hands were white-knuckled where he grabbed the armchair; he looked the very picture of a discomfited gentleman.

In Stiles’ mind, several pieces of information were slowly shifting. It were the pieces of a puzzle, perhaps, that he had collected most absent-mindedly and unconsciously; disparate pieces that he’d never before thought to associate with each other were now waiting to be aligned. There was a shape to them, a rhyme, an order…

–Hale had heard Raeken’s words even though the alpha had lowered his voice considerably–

–at the market, Hale had turned on his heels and left– 

–his eyes had turned bright golden for a brief moment, when they’d dance at the Festival – a trick of the light, Stiles had _assumed_ – 

“Oh goodness.” Stiles inhaled sharply and felt near ready to double over. His vision was swimming at the edges.

“Mr. Stilinski! Are you alright?” Hale inquired, a measure of alarm to his tone. He rose from his seat quickly, ready to steady Stiles if worse should come to the worst.

Weathering a rolling wave of nausea, Stiles thought of all his books about wolves he’d read. “No – I don’t think so,” he admitted.

 _Keep your mind open_ , Deaton had urged him. _Consider the possibilities._

It was one thing to wonder about the concept of magic, abstractly, with thrill and illicit pleasure. It was quite another thing to consider the possibility that the alpha gentleman in front of him might be not entirely human and turn into a beast if given the proper incentive. Laughing faintly, Stiles said, “I just had a realization. Either I have lost my mind, completely and irrevocably… or the world is a more curious place than I previously realized!”

“I’m not following you,” Hale said. He looked acutely worried.

Another laugh. “Wish that I could believe that.”

“Mr. Stilinski! You’re not making any sense and you’re white as a sheet! Do you require assistance?”

“I’m not going to faint on you, Mr. Hale.” Stiles paused. “At least I hope so. I shall not promise anything. But to answer your question, yes, you may be of assistance! I’m going to ask you a very blunt and indecent question.”

Now Hale looked even more worried than before, if such a thing was even possible.

“Are you a werewolf?” Stiles asked.

That shocked Hale, well and proper. “Come again?”

“That would explain so many things!” Stiles laughed again, nearing hysteria. “Not least of which your eyebrows!”

 _“Excuse me?”_ Hale said.

“That your family lives in seclusion! That none of you ever visited the town’s finest schools!”

“There are many reasons for that decision,” Hale exclaimed, smoothing over his eyebrows with one distracted hand. “None of which require such a ludicrous explanation!”

“Your excellent hearing! Your glowing eyes at the Fall Festival!”

“Mr. Stilinski, I’m afraid you’re not well, not well at all-“

“I think I’ve never been more well in my entire life,” Stiles said, soberly now. There was a clarity to the revelation, a building sense of profound and utter… rightness. “I know I’ve hit the mark. I’m very certain now, Mr. Hale. And if I could prove it to you, I would.”

Whatever Hale might have replied was to remain a mystery, for lightning struck close-by in the very next moment. Stiles yelled in shock and found his yell to be drowned out by thunder, which was so bone-rattling a force of nature, so terrible to reckon with, it seemed like the fabric of the sky was being torn apart. For a moment, Stiles considered himself blinded as well as deafened – thus had been brute strength of that bolt.

When he came to his senses and recovered, he found Hale had fared worse than him. The alpha crouched on the ground, moaning in pain and pressing hands to his face – no, to his _ears!_

Stiles was alarmed to the highest degree. “Mr. Hale! May I be of assistance? Mr. Hale!”

That got the alpha’s attention, at least. Even as he was still groaning in pain, he turned to look at Stiles.

With eyes that were decidedly _not_ human.

The golden eyes of a _wolf._

It appeared Stiles’ assessment _had_ been right. Perhaps he should have felt triumphant and vindicated, but he was too stunned for those sentiments to gain a hold over him.

Hale was preoccupied with his condition and thus neither noticed his lapse nor Stiles’ reaction to it. When he had recovered sufficiently, he rose to his feet – although those were still shaky and his breathing still labored. “I have no desire to ever hear such a loud noise again,” he said earnestly.

“Your eyes…” Stiles said. 

Hale swallowed as he became aware of his blunder. The color bled from his eyes, but it was undeniable that he had been caught, and his posture slumped in an admission of defeat.

“You are a werewolf,” Stiles said. “Or at least not human, at any rate.”

There was no verbal answer. Hale did not deny it; did not offer an explanation or excuse. Instead he just looked at Stiles – and looking at Stiles, seemed to make a grave decision. And then his form _changed_. His ears grew sharp points. His jaw became wider and his entire face broader. The bone structure under his skin reshaped itself to grow more beast-like, and his eyes began to glow like burning coals once more.

“Oh my god!” Stiles yelled in full alarm.

Perhaps that was not the reaction Hale hoped to inspire, for the beast features melted off his face quickly again. He looked at Stiles with apprehension and no small amount of sorrow.

“That was the most wondrous thing I’ve ever seen,” Stiles exclaimed. “What an awe-inspiring sight to behold! Marvelous!”

Hale _stared_ at Stiles in disbelief. “You think so?”

“I do,” Stiles said softly and meant it.

The sentiment seemed to throw Hale off-balance, albeit fortunately not in a literal sense. It was endearing to see a man of his statue reduced to bashful pleasure; Hale’s smile was shy and full of wonder.

“Do it again!” Stiles asked of him.

And so Hale let his eyes glow bright yellow. It was still raining outside, but the shock of the lightning strike and the raging storm were all but forgotten by them. They were reduced to a world that contained only them and minded nothing else.

“You’re a werewolf,” Stiles said.

“I am,” Hale confirmed.

Stiles exhaled shakily. He was experiencing so many emotions at once that it was difficult to determine which one outshone the others. Wonder and awe, certainly; hope and disbelief as well. He paced the room in agitation. “Oh,” he uttered as he fully realized all implications of Hale’s nature and _shame_ was added to his complicated emotional state. He sharply turned to the alpha. “You heard every word I said at the market...”

“I did,” Hale admitted.

Stiles had suspected that before, but now that he had the confirmation he felt ready to die of mortification. How shameless they had been, him and Lydia! To imagine that Hale had heard all about them disparaging his character and appeal! Stiles remembered that he’d assumed Hale to be bereft of warmth and compassion, and all the other attributes that made one desirable as a partner. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “An apology is in order, Mr. Hale. I am deeply ashamed by my past comments about your person, and am sorry to have inflicted my poor and ill-informed opinion on you as the most unwilling recipient.”

“I accept your apology,” Hale said after a small, strangled pause. He seemed very embarrassed by the turn of their conversation and willing to talk about another topic; _any_ other topic at all.

He didn’t need to trouble himself on that account, as it turned out, for Stiles was frantic now – his thoughts were in full gallop, like a spooked horse. One epiphany was followed by another in quick succession and barely allowed either of them a small reprieve. “My goodness! Boyd and Erica are werewolves too, are they not? That is why they’re living with you, and the reason for Erica's improved health!”

Hale looked sheepish. “That is not for me to say.”

“I didn’t hear a denial!”

“Most likely because I didn’t give one.” Hale sighed. “Mr. Stilinski, it’s preferable not to pry into these matters. The less is said, the better.”

“As you wish,” Stiles agreed. He was already chasing the next revelation, and what a revelation that was! “That wolf the other day – that was no wolf at all! That was you!”

Now it was Hale’s turn to look deeply mortified.

“I don’t believe it!” Stiles exclaimed. “You let me _pet_ you like a common dog!”

“Well-“ Hale stuttered. “You were so frightened that night, I simply didn’t want to add to your discomfort! And it was you who wanted to pet me, if I may be allowed to help your recollection! If I am to be faulted, then only for acquiescing to your demands instead of resisting them.”

“You visited me again a few days ago,” Stiles accused him. “And you let me pet you _again_.”

This time, Hale found it harder to defend himself. “Well… I’m very partial to head scratches,” he said.

Stiles stared at him.

“Anyway, let us not dwell on these matters! Whatever did you traipse in the woods for that night? I do have a small inkling… Boyd mentioned you’d developed an undue interest in some plant of his. I seem to remember that you mentioned a similar subject at Scott and Kira’s engagement dinner.”

“I’m avidly fascinated by botany,” Stiles replied.

“You’re avidly fascinated by the occult,” Hale corrected him. “Am I not right? All hidden knowledge. _Magic_.”

“Perhaps,” Stiles said, and felt ill at ease at having been caught out so easily. “But I’m not accountable to you in that area, nor in any other. Anyway – how did you find me? Why did you guide me back? You were hunting with your pack, were you not?”

Hale smiled as he remembered the night in question. “The way you crashed through the trees, you could have woken the dead. It was impossible not to hear you. I investigated the commotion, found you – imagine my surprise! – and witnessed you walking deeper and deeper into the heart of the forest. Which is no clever idea, as I needn’t mention.”

A hot wave of embarrassment rose to Stiles’ cheeks. “Duly noted.”

“Of course I wanted to guide you back to safety,” Hale said solemnly and then added in good humor, “And all I got for my troubles was your meager attempt at stone-throwing.”

“Self-defense is an omega’s prerogative,” Stiles murmured.

“Then I must find out what the forest floor ever did to you. I’m very tempted to tell the Sheriff to give you throwing lessons.”

“Oh shush, you uncouth brute!” Stiles huffed. “That’s no way to talk to an omega of delicate sensibilities.”

“Indeed not,” Hale confirmed. “And if one of those were present, I would adjust my manner of talking accordingly.”

Stiles regarded him with a look that didn’t reveal any warm affections. “Mr. Hale, it turns out you may well be the death of my poor nerves. It’s a pity you’re not more protective of them; I might need your gallantry one of these days.”

Although Stiles had clearly said those words in jest, Hale did not react to them in the same manner. His face fell. He looked very serious all of the sudden.

“What’s the matter?” Stiles asked. It seemed his words had hit a mark that he hadn't even known existed. They had talked about all kind of unseemly things in the last minutes – surely those remarks hadn’t crossed a boundary of some sort?

Hale cleared his throat. “Mr. Stilinski, there is something I must tell you, but I think it would be best if you sat down before I do so.” 

“You’re being very dramatic,” Stiles complained, but sat down just in case. Then he made an impatient hand gesture, urging Hale to get on with whatever he wanted to say (or, in fact, didn't).

“When I guided you back and brought you home…” Hale began, and faltered. He looked at Stiles with a measure of ruefulness that did nothing to ease Stiles’ nerves. “I noticed something on your property that shouldn’t have been there, that didn’t belong in your garden; a scent.”

Stiles’ anxiety rose. “What kind of scent?” he whispered.

It seemed Hale wanted to stall, for he settled into an armchair before he answered, and fidgeted with his hands in a graceless manner. “Theodore Raeken’s.”

 _“What?”_ That was not what Stiles had expected, if had come up with any expectation at all. It felt like rivulets of cold water were making their way across his back, running down his spine and leaving a horrible chill in their wake… it was a most uncomfortable experience, to say the least.

“Yes,” Hale confirmed. “I’m sorry. There were older traces of his scent as well as newer ones. It seems he has stalked your grounds for quite some time now.”

“This beggars belief...” Stiles shivered. “I’m _most_ displeased to hear that.”

“I can only imagine,” Hale said with sympathy. “I’m very sorry I couldn’t alert you to his presence any sooner; I couldn’t find a way to tell you without revealing myself as what I am.”

“No, no – I understand,” Stiles said.

“But we did not leave you or the Sheriff defenseless. None of us could bear that thought. My pack has protected you in the last weeks… as have other influences.”

Stiles was stunned once more, which by now felt like a very familiar, albeit not comforting sensation. “Your pack has protected us? How?”

“We have closely patrolled this area in addition to our actual territory.” Hale seemed intent to impress the seriousness of their efforts on Stiles, and detailed how they had taken turns watching over the Stilinskis. “And there are also other measures that can and have been taken… and I am pleased, very pleased indeed, that there haven’t been any new scent traces of Raeken lately.”

“I’m glad for it,” Stiles said. He felt so grateful to Hale, more grateful than he could find the words to express. He had misjudged Hale's character _gravely_ indeed. “Is that why you reacted that way at the Fall Festival?”

Hale sighed. “Yes. My words were poorly chosen; you couldn’t help but misunderstand them. My concern was real, however, and rooted in the knowledge of a threat of which you were not aware. I mostly thought of your reckless adventure in the woods, which may well have taken another turn if I hadn’t found you…”

Stiles shuddered. “I wonder what Raeken was up to…”

They were quiet as they considered the possibilities, none of which were savory in the least. What a sick individual Raeken was – much, _much_ sicker than Stiles himself had realized. “To hell with him, I won't be cowed by his dreadful behavior!” he said defiantly and went over to his father's liquor cabinet to retrieve a bottle of brandy and two crystal glasses. He poured a generous amount into Hale's, which the man accepted without a fuss, and was only slightly less generous with his own. Then Stiles reclined into the armchair - already feeling better than the moment before - and drank a deep gulp. It left a pleasantly burning trail all the way down his throat. “It seems my etiquette teacher was right all along," he mused and then chuckled, tickled as he was by a flash of dark humor.

"How so?" Hale asked. 

A laugh. "She predicted I would end up a gentleman of ill repute if I kept ignoring all her pearls of wisdom. And look at me now! I'm spending time with an unattached alpha, entirely unsupervised, and nearing a state of dangerous intoxication that might infer with my better judgment!"

"You only drank one sip so far. Aren't we being a bit theatrical?"

"Not at all. This is prime gossip fodder, Mr. Hale." Stiles raised his glass to the alpha's, an ironical bent to his lips. "To unforgivable foolishness."

Hale clinked their glasses together. "I will drink to that, Mr. Stilinski. But only with you."

Stiles gave him a sly look. "I believe you have just complimented my powers of persuasion."

"I believe you're right," Hale said and smiled shyly.

  
  
  


*

 

Stiles and Hale were engaged in deep conversation when John finally returned. It must have been a curious sight to happen upon. Stiles hurried over to him immediately. His father was soaked from head to toe and all his clothes looked worse for the wear, but that did not prevent Stiles from giving him a heartfelt hug. “Father! You must nearly have caught death, let me draw you a bath and lay out dry clothes.”

“That would be most appreciated,” John said and smiled gratefully.

While John refreshed himself, Stiles busied himself in the kitchen and warmed the leftover food from lunch, as well as brewing a strong tea and assorting a plate of pastries. When his father returned, Stiles and Hale were more than willing to keep him company.

“You must tell us what happened!” Stiles urged his father once he had managed to eat a few bites.

John sighed. “I might as well, I suppose. There is no hope of containing news such as these: a body has been found.”

The way he said it, it was evident there had been no accident.

 _“A murder?”_ Stiles said.

“Yes, indeed.” John looked grave and in that moment markedly older than his forty-two years.

“Who was the – the unfortunate victim, if I may ask?” Hale inquired of him.

“Mr. Burnet Schroeder.”

This left both Stiles and Hale stunned.

“The brother of Canfield Schroeder, who works at the town council?” Hale asked in a shocked tone.

“Indeed, the very one,” John confirmed.

Stiles remembered having seen Burnet around. He was an unassuming omega, with his school years not long behind him, who never had been in conflict with law or drawn undue attention to him, at least that Stiles knew of. “Was he….?” he asked in a small voice. His throat felt tight, both in sympathy with the man and something larger than him, for it seemed the gruesomeness of that fate was shared by all omegas who heard of it.

A sterner parent might have disregarded the question. Even cloaked in ambiguity, it was too indecent to ask from an omega, especially in the company of an alpha gentleman – but John did not shy away from it. “No. Not as far we could tell. And yet I cannot say he did not suffer as he died. But that is all I shall tell you on the matter. The news will make its rounds, as it always does, and there is no need to stoke the flames and add to speculation. At the very least out of respect for his family, whom I visited today.”

Hale nodded, his face solemn. “I understand. What a terrible tragedy.”

“Your mother works with Mr. Canfield Schroeder at the council, doesn’t she?” John inquired.

“Yes.” Hale frowned. “Not very closely and I’m personally not acquainted with Mr. Schroeder, but she does. We shall have to send an expression of our condolence at once and make a visit whenever our schedule permits.”

Hale didn’t stay very long after that, and that was only sensible given how late it already was. He had not outlasted the hospitality of the Stilinskis, but it was undeniable that John felt exhausted and would wish to drink his brandy in peace (albeit he might require an explanation why the brandy had already been removed from the cabinet). Both Stilinskis brought Hale to the door. John shook his hand as he thanked him for keeping his son company.

“It was my pleasure,” Hale said and gave Stiles a look of respect and warm regard.

It was returned in the same spirit.  
  
  


*

 

When Stiles retired to his bedroom that night, he did not expect any more excitements than those that the day had already yielded, and was in fact longing for the tranquility of his room, which would hopefully allow him to ponder the day’s many revelations and help him make sense of his tumultuous feelings.

Alas, it was not to be so.

Stiles had just put on his night shirt when he caught movement out of the corners of his eyes and had to suppress a scream. On his escritoire, which was cluttered with heaps of paper, a quill lifted itself from the table, dabbed itself into a leftover pot of ink, and began to scribble on a page. Stiles hurried over and watched in thrilled horror as a note was being written by a ghost hand. He waved his hand through the air, but it there was no one corporeal guiding the quill. 

_Dear Mr. Stilinski,_

_Three days from now, on Wednesday, I will send a carriage for you shortly after noon._

_I believe it is high time we talked._

_A. D._

Once the note had been written, the quill shuddered and sank down, inanimate once more. But that was not the end of the spectacle. Stiles yelped as the note caught fire – out of nowhere! – and burned in front of his eyes; there was a white tinge to the flames that made them seem entirely unnatural. In the end, all that was left behind was a small, neat pile of ashes.

It didn’t take long for Stiles to suspect that none other than _Alan Deaton_ might be behind the initials, and the wheels of his mind spun round and round as he considered this new piece of information.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go until the mid-season finale! Chapter 8 is going to be a long one (more than 8.000 words), so I can again only ask for your patience.
> 
> Also, this is definitively Stiles' year of realizing stuff, lol.


	8. Leap of Faith

  
  
  
By Tuesday Stiles had more questions than answers and was much longing to see Deaton. He had the strong impression that the doctor’s note – or at least what he assumed to be his – was linked to the revealing conversation he had had with Mr. Hale. Perhaps in more ways than one; perhaps Deaton had even tried to push him in the direction of a long overdue epiphany. How willingly he had lent him those books about wolves! And his steward, Mr. Davis, had recommended the werewolf lore in particular, which surely could have been no accident. _Science not known yet_ , indeed.

But the mysterious note wasn’t all that occupied Stiles’ thoughts. He often thought of Mr. Hale and the long afternoon they had shared, drinking brandy and discussing all kinds of matters big and small.

And then there was the murder. The news of it had spread like wildfire.

Without success, Stiles had implored his father for more information, but John hadn’t budged an inch and had expressly forbidden him from raising the subject again. He spent his time in the study when he was home at all, and it was rare that the spirits remained untouched in those hours. Stiles worried about him. His father was not only taking the murder case seriously, he was taking it _personally_ , and would be wearing himself out before long if he continued in the same fashion. 

Stiles had been in town yesterday, to observe fixed engagements with his hairdresser and tailor, and had eagerly soaked up every rumor he’d come across. The word on the street was that the murder of Burnet Schroeder had been _satanistic_. What that meant nobody was certain, except that the murder must have been very cruel. Some assumed that the young omega had been led astray by a rogue admirer, while others ventured the guess that he’d perhaps never been guileless and brought about his own demise. Who knew if he hadn’t sneaked out to meet strange alphas in the dead of night? Who truly knew his character and virtue? His murder might just another cautionary tale in the making. Stiles thought that a fundamentally stupid and yet entirely unsurprising line of thinking. People liked to run their mouth and fabulate outrageous theories, but most of all… they wanted to find sense in chaos and horror. They wanted to find justice.

The way the whole town was buzzing with energy, rumor flying from mouth to mouth, had reminded Stiles of a beehive that had been prodded none too gently. It was all everyone seemed capable of talking about. Most considered the news shocking and saddening, but there were also those who seemed to experience a thrill of excitement despite the horror… or maybe precisely because of it.

Not so Stiles. The murder disquieted him, and shivering goosebumps raised the hairs on his skin whenever he thought about it. He welcomed any distractions and diversions. Magically burning paper or the odd werewolf here and there were _very_ much appreciated.

On Wednesday a carriage arrived for him promptly at noon. He left a note for his father so he wouldn’t worry upon finding the house empty. Truth to be told, nothing in the world could prevent those inclinations of his. John had lost his wife to sickness and was always alarmed when his son felt unwell. Stiles felt guilty for lying to him, truly, but in this case it was a necessary evil to be endured.

The coachwoman confirmed Stiles’ suspicions that they were bound for Deaton’s townhouse. The storm three days ago had made some roads impassable, as they were flooded with mud or trees had crashed on them, and so the ride was slow going. At least the weather was more obliging today; it was remarkably sunny for late fall and the air was clear and calm.

Stiles tried to pay the coachwoman when they arrived, but she steadfastly refused to take any of his money. “It’s all been paid for, child.”

“If you insist,” Stiles said, although he wasn’t happy to shirk his fair share.

She was not a woman to be denied and insisted. Her manners were gentle, and she opened the door of the carriage for him and assisted his descent. Then she bid him a good day.

Hopefully, that’s what it would be… a very fair day indeed.

When Stiles was about to open the wooden gate to the doctor’s property, it swung back with force in his direction, and he had to jump a step back to avoid being hit. He was taken aback when he found himself facing none other than Ms. Braeden Oliveira, who must have just visited the doctor. She appeared far more shocked by his presence than he be hers, however, and no wonder! His close association with Lydia must serve as a painful reminder of what she had lost so recently.

For a paralyzed moment, they both didn’t know what they could possibly say to each other; it looked like profound awkwardness would ensue. They hadn’t shared many conversations yet, as Lydia had been prone to taking up Ms. Oliveira’s time. Had the courtship continued, Stiles had no doubt there would have been many more common activities in the future, and perhaps she would have grown to be his friend in addition to Lydia’s wife.

“Ms. Oliveira,” Stiles said and bowed to her.

She did likewise. “Mr. Stilinski.” She wore a practical everyday outfit; sturdy, form-fitting leather well-made for riding. Although no fault could be found with her composure, which was ramrod straight and exuded an ease with power, Stiles noted a certain wistfulness about her person too, which spoke of ill nights spent with little sleep. The melancholy did nothing to dampen Ms. Oliveira’s exquisite beauty, however, and Stiles could well see why Lydia had fallen for her. She’d always had a discerning taste and none but the most striking alphas could hope to raise her interests. In the case of Ms. Oliveira, beauty had wed fortitude, which had wed intelligence and a certain disregard for the rules of finer society. Her allure, therefore, was undebatable.

“I hope you and your family are in good health, Mr. Stilinski,” she said.

“Thank you, thank you, we are in excellent health!” Stiles said. Then he remembered he was on his way to see a doctor and his statement sounded curious in that light. “Well. Not quite as _well_ as one could hope, but also not excessively poor per se, so to speak… and you, Ms. Oliveira? How are you?” _How have you fared since Lydia called the courtship off_ , went unsaid but not unheard.

“In all honesty, I have been better.” Ms. Oliveira smiled at Stiles; a rueful, bitter, and sharp smile, although there was some real humor in there too. “I wouldn’t want to relive the past weeks, nor do I look forward to those ahead of me.”

“That I can well believe,” Stiles replied.

A pause strained the air between them before Mr. Oliveira continued, “And how is your friend, Ms. Martin, if I may inquire? I hope she is in good health.”

What a fraught question. “She is,” Stiles confirmed and didn’t know whether that was good news to receive or not. “Physically, at least.”

Ms. Oliveira hesitated before nodding. “I’m very glad to hear it. Well – I should be on my way. I wish you a pleasant day, Mr. Stilinski, and a quick and easy recovery.”

“Ms. Oliveira…” Stiles faltered. He wondered whether he should act on the impulse he felt in that very moment; sometimes his impulses led him astray. “Would you forgive me the impropriety of intruding on a private matter?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Presumably, although that’s very much dependent on what you’re about to say.”

“A good answer. I shall take that as encouragement.” Stiles thought it likely that Ms. Oliveira would be inclined to forgiveness, although _Lydia_ was another matter entirely. He cleared his throat. “I want to express how very sorry I am to hear that you and Lydia ended the courtship. I thought you treated her with a degree of respect that none of her other suitors ever granted her.”

Ms. Oliveira exhaled audibly and looked at Stiles with a sharp expression. “Mr. Stilinski, I’m _certain_ you have good intentions, but your condolences aren’t warranted, I assure you.”

“Please don’t give up hope on Lydia,” Stiles urged her.

That startled Ms. Oliveira. “Pardon me?”

“I don’t know exactly how Lydia broke off the engagement, she said you remained amiable” – Ms. Oliveira’s lips twitched at that – “but I imagine she found very strong words as to why a continuation would not make sense.”

“She did,” Ms. Oliveira said quietly. “She told me there would be no future for us, as she had no choice but to make a good match, in terms of society, reputation, and wealth… none of which I would ever be able to provide for her.” Her voice wobbled a little, at the end, which stirred Stiles’ compassion and fortified his resolve.

“That sounds like Lydia when she attempts to scare someone off,” he said. “It’s not a lie – it’s the sort of thing Lydia’s parents have drilled into her head, and that she has made her own. Lydia has always been ardently admired, you know. Ever since she was a little girl, she was prized as a great beauty. There is an _expectation_ of who she is going to choose and where she is going to end up; preferably at the very height of distinguished society.” At Braeden’s flat look, Stiles quickly said, “But that’s not all there is to here, as you well know! She is longing to be respected, truly respected, for her wit and sharp mind, and supported in any endeavor she sets her mind to… which is what you did, I believe.”

“I understand that Lydia wishes for freedom,” Braeden said. “But she did choose conventional wisdom in the end. I can’t change her mind on that. It is true that I can offer her no certain future, and I could not bear her ill will is she were unhappy a few years down the road, and blaming _me_ for it… if I truly ruined her life, as her parents expect I would.”

“I find it much more likely that Lydia’s life is ruined by the route she’s currently following,” Stiles countered. “Please bear in mind that her every expression of freedom has been squashed by her family, not to mention an army of chaperones. It’s hard to unlearn those lessons.”

“Hmm.” Ms. Oliveira gave him a calculating look. “So which course of action would you recommend to me?”

“I’m not sure, actually,” Stiles said with an embarrassed little laugh. “Just try to… to keep in her orbit, a bit. I usually don’t say this to alphas, as the problem is usually of the opposite nature, but it would serve you well to remain close to her and remind her of what she could have – remind her that there’s an alternative.”

“I see,” Ms. Oliveira said. She looked contemplative but not yet convinced.

“You promised to stay friendly with each other, did you not? That means you have a perfectly good reason to inquire after her. That’s what friends commonly do!”

That didn’t persuade Ms. Oliveira either. “I understand your reasoning, but at the same time you must understand mine. It is not like me to beg for affection. I will not grovel at anyone’s feet and ask anyone to _lower_ herself to my level. No. I will not wound my pride so fatally.”

“Oh no, no, that would be exactly the wrong thing to do!” Stiles exclaimed. “Nothing would ruin Lydia’s fondness of you quicker than groveling. But if you’re sure of yourself and act as if her rejection hardly matters to you, she will not long stew in her anger before she reconsiders. And if you can inspire her to jealousy, perhaps with another paramour, well, all the better!”

“That is _devious_ , Mr. Stilinski.” There was a gleam in Ms. Oliveira’s eyes. “You’re asking me to affront her.”

“Nothing of that sort. I’m just asking you to fight fire with fire, or rather pride with pride.” He smiled at her, all innocence. “In matters of love and war…”

Ms. Oliveira chuckled. “And there’s no telling which of these matters it is. Thank you for being so candid, Mr. Stilinski. I shall think on it.”

“Good luck, whichever option you choose.”

They parted ways with that. Stiles hoped he hadn’t committed an irredeemable sin in Lydia’s eyes; their friendship was damaged enough as it was.

With some trepidation, Stiles entered Deaton’s property and climbed the stairs to his front door. It felt comforting that the little wind chime above the door rang a merry tune upon his appearance, sent aflutter by a gust of wind. Mr. Davis welcomed him and led him into the garden behind the house. Stiles had never been here, although he’d caught glimpses of it through the windows. It was quite spacious, especially for its location in the middle of the town, and seemed serene and well-tended. Large evergreen fir trees lined its edges. There were no less than three ornately decorated greenhouses, and rows upon rows of plant beds (now mostly barren, although Stiles spotted lettuce, frisée, Red Giant mustard, curly-leaved kale, and a couple of other plants that thrived in the cold season).

Deaton was busy tending to one part of the garden and rose when he became aware of Stiles. “Mr. Stilinski. I’m glad you could make it!”

“Well, with an intriguing invitation such as this, it was hard to refuse.”

Deaton chuckled as they exchanged bows. “It’s hard to upstage that, it’s true.” He took off his gloves, which were dirtied with mud, and gave them to Mr. Davis along with his gardening tools. The steward went to put them away. 

“I wasn’t aware you enjoyed gardening,” Stiles said. It was an unusual hobby for a man of his stature, although certainly not the height of eccentricity.

“I do, and very much so.” Deaton looked down at the patch of soil he’d been digging up. He seemed quite satisfied with himself. “Occasionally I enjoy working with my hands. Creating the right kind of garden, for all seasons and purposes, can be quite the challenge. Now, where are my manners? You didn’t come here to admire the bare flower beds, did you?”

He led Stiles to a small study in the East wing of his house, which was both cozy and looked like a much-utilized room. Mr. Davis brought them tea and lemon scones and then excused himself again.

Once they were alone, Deaton said, “I’ve heard you’ve had a turbulent Sunday.”

Stiles regarded him cautiously. “What gives you the impression – or rather, who?”

“I have my sources,” Deaton said with the suggestion of a smile. He must have talked to Mr. Hale in some capacity, which disappointed Stiles. He wished their shared afternoon would have remained private.

“You talked to Mr. Hale,” Stiles said.

Deaton didn’t deny doing so. “The Hales are friends of mine.”

That was news to Stiles. It seemed the Hales were the gravity at the center of a great many social circles. Stiles still didn’t understand how Scott and Kira’s acquaintance with them had come about... no, they had never been able to explain to his satisfaction.

“From our previous encounters, which were not as numerous as I would have liked, I gathered that you strive for knowledge,” Deaton said.

“I do…”

Deaton’s look was calculating. “Why?”

That question stumped Stiles. “Why? Because knowledge of all kinds is _interesting_ to me. There needn’t be a greater reason that that, I feel… interest is a purpose in and of itself.”

“Knowledge doesn’t exist in a void. More often than not, is it used as a means to an end. To achieve wealth. To achieve social standing and power.”

“What are you implying?” Stiles asked in a pointed tone, his ire quickly rising as he considered the possibilities.

“Nothing as of yet,” Deaton said with one of those enigmatic smiles he was so fond of. “If I were to share knowledge with you, and that knowledge was power… would you be able not to act on it? Would you be able to let everyone stew in ignorance and small-mindedness?”

Stiles thought on that. “Well… first I need to know why I wouldn’t be able to share that knowledge. Why would that be expressly forbidden?”

“Safety,” Deaton said. “The world is a much richer place than most people are capable of imagining, and I dearly hope it stays that way. It wasn’t so long ago that ‘superstitions’ ran deep and wide in this country and a belief in the occult was commonplace. It still is, truth to be told. Never pass anything over a baby’s head, or the hair shall not grow. You surely have heard that advice? The maiden omega who tends a fire well will have a lucky marriage match! Burn the skull of a white horse and you shall never suffer smallpox!”

“Common folk beliefs,” Stiles said, uneasily. “You’re not telling me those are actually true, are you?”

“They’re not,” Deaton said to Stiles’ relief. “But there is some truth at their roots. Truth that has been twisted and poorly translated – consider it a language transcribed by those incapable of speaking it. It’s garbled nonsense to the trained ear, and yet here and there a little meaning will shine through.”

Stiles tried not to lose his nonchalance, but his heart was beating faster in excitement. He knew where this conversation was heading; God, he knew it! Still, he had to demonstrate to Deaton that his emotional states were not dictating the course of his behavior. “And if the truth were to be discovered… that would endanger all those who are aware of the ‘richer’ world you’re speaking of?”

Deaton inclined his head. “Indeed.”

“I’ve read how many were persecuted during the witch hunts,” Stiles said with some hesitation. “How many were killed.”

“Indeed,” Deaton said. “Not so long ago, actually. It still happened last century. Sometimes, it sufficed to observe a different faith; that was enough to rouse suspicions. Others were targeted because their mind worked a little differently than everyone else’s. Yet others because they were foreigners. There are countless reasons for those persecutions, and none of them speak highly of human nature.”

“I understand,” Stiles said solemnly. “Given those circumstances, yes, I can answer your question affirmatively. I can keep sensitive matters a secret.”

Deaton appeared satisfied. “Good. We may think we live in times that are more enlightened, but still we could regress at any time. Our fates are determined by colliding coincidences more than we would like to admit.”

“You took quite the gamble there,” Stiles pointed out. “You alerted me with a _magically_ written note. What if I had told anyone?”

“I believed you too circumspect to do that,” Deaton answered. “Besides, the evidence burned and took care of itself.”

“Fair enough,” Stiles had to admit. “You disquieted me with the note, and yet I did not doubt my own sanity. I saw what I saw. Will you do me the great favor of confirming to me, once and for all, that magic is real?”

“Yes,” Deaton said. “And not only can I confirm to you that magic is as real as anything else in this world! I can also confirm that you are able to use magic.”

Maybe the thought should have crossed Stiles mind, but it hadn’t; not for one moment had he considered that he might be more than a perceptive bystander – more than a – _God_. “You’re telling me I’m a _witch_?”

Deaton chuckled. “Oh no! If you need a word for it, I suggest druid. Not that you’re a practitioner of any sort yet.”

“But I _could_ be.” Stiles felt short of breath.

“You have the potential, certainly. You’re a spark waiting to erupt into a full fire.”

“How can you possibly be _certain_ of that?” Stiles exclaimed. He felt a hope too great to be named – it was a terrible business, hoping. All his life he’d wished for reasonable hope, but growing up had taught him to manage his disappointments. Solace could be found in defeat, one after another; it was _hope_ that always hurt him in the end.

“I knew the moment you stepped over the threshold of my door,” Deaton said mildly. “A few month ago. There is a little wind chime above the main entrance. You may have noticed it clinking even when the weather is calm. Like today, as a matter of fact.”

Dumbfounded, Stiles thought back on his previous visits. It was true that the wind chime had always whistled its merry little tune.

“The moment someone steps into my house, I know a great deal about that person,” Deaton said. “Whether their intent is good or bad. Whether they’re human or not. What they’re capable of. The wind chime indicates all of those things and more, just through its melody. With you, I sensed a great deal of _raw_ magical talent.”

“You mean that?” Stiles asked. “You’re speaking the truth? You’re not – not winding me up?”

“No, I’m not,” Deaton said solemnly. “And I lent you those books, many of which cover occult knowledge and have been personally charmed, by me, so that they only reveal their proper contents to those of a magical bearing.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “I had the feeling that the books very _reacting_ to me, at least some of them. How very curious that I was right!”

“Not curious at all, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton said. “From here on out, I want you to _trust_ your intuition. The biggest enemy of knowledge is a sense of lacking curiosity and that feeling that something curious isn’t curious at all, and can be explained by common sense.”

“Alright,” Stiles said. It was a lot to take in. He felt dazed and still quite disbelieving of the entire affair, like he was playing a game of make-belief with Deaton and humoring the good man; or maybe it was the other way around. It was hard to tell.

“You have a lot to learn,” Deaton said. “But before I tell you more, I must ask something of you.”

“Oh?”

“I want you to swear that you will keep your knowledge of all things magical and supernatural a secret from those yet unaware of it. Swear it by your good name, and the future happiness of all those you hold dear. Swear it by your hopes and dreams, your aspirations and secrets longings.”

Stiles hesitated. “That sounds like a serious oath.”

“Oh, it is. Do not enter lightly into this. You can still turn away and forget everything you witnessed.”

That would _never_ be an option for him, Stiles knew. “What happens if I break the oath?”

“I will know,” Deaton said. “And you will have cursed yourself and others into unhappiness.”

“What if there ever comes the time I want to confide in someone?” _Like my father_ , Stiles thought. _Like Scott and Lydia_.

“You may do so if I agree that that’s a good idea. Otherwise not.”

Stiles considered this carefully. It did not seem an unfair deal given the gravity of what he would learn if he consented. “I swear…” he began and delivered the oath faithfully.

At least Deaton made it worth his while and gave an introduction into the complex topic of magic. To Stiles’ ever-growing sense of wonderment, he learned that humans had used magic for thousands of years. The different disciplines of it were almost too plentiful to name, and many more had been forgotten as the ages went on and entire civilizations fell. There was elemental magic that was tied to the Earth, like aquakinesis, pyrokinesis, fulgurkinesis and the like, but also the study of metamorphosis and alchemy, divination and telepathy, and conjuration as well as spirit magic, to name just a few. It was impossible to become proficient at all of them; most people took a liking to a few particular disciplines and pursued them further.

Interestingly, almost anyone could dabble in magic to some extent. An item that been suffused with magic, for example, would work no matter if its owner were capable of using magic or not. But the act of making the item magical in the first place was much more difficult. True magical talent was rare and to be cherished.

“In the end, it’s not the extent of your talent that matters, or the resources at your hand,” Deaton said soberly. “The _will_ is the most important part of any magical ritual. You need to _believe_ that your hard work will come into fruition.”

That thought troubled Stiles. “Do you mean to say that self-doubts are forbidden? Because if so, I have dreadful news for you.”

Deaton shook his head. “What I’m saying is that you need to be at ease with yourself and your abilities. That, too, is a skill which can be learned. In time you will hopefully master techniques that will assist you in clearing your mind and achieving a greater focus.”

Stiles sincerely hoped that that would be the case, although convinced… convinced he was not.

Be that as it may, one matter still needed to be addressed. “Mr. Hale told me that Theo Raeken has stalked our property,” he said. Deaton didn’t look surprised, which was an interesting piece of information in itself and near confirmed one of Stiles’ fledgling theories. “Mr. Hale assured me his family took care to patrol the area, but mentioned that _other_ measures had been taken also. Do you happen to be involved in these measures?”

A sly smile lit up Deaton’s face. “Indeed. Well observed, Mr. Stilinski. It seems you inherited your father’s unfailing ability to interpret the available cues and make a coherent story of it. I will admit that I warded your property with protective runes. They’re not a fail-safe measure, mind you, but make it all the more difficult to harm those under their care.”

Stiles felt vindicated as this puzzle piece was aligned with the others. “I’m indebted to you,” he said. “Please accept my sincere gratitude. And even more so because you’ve been forthright with me! I appreciate it greatly.”

“As well you _should_ ,” Deaton said with gentle smile that softened his words but did not take away their meaning.

“Can you tell me what is _wrong_ with Mr. Raeken, exactly?”

“If only we knew,” Deaton said drily. “A great many things, I assume, although we haven’t yet reached a conclusion in that debate.”

Stiles considered that carefully. “Is he human?”

A shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

That was not a comforting statement, although it didn’t matter quite as much in the grand scheme of things as it would have some time ago. It seemed Stiles now had _allies_ that were invested in his safety and well-being, curious as that was. Like Deaton. And the Hales. If you also considered that Stiles was the son of the Sheriff and friends with the most formidable people in the entire county, he felt quite well taken care of.

Besides, Stiles had more important things to do than worry about one overly entitled alpha. He had a _world_ of possibilities to explore. Which meant he had to submerge himself into a whole new area of knowledge and study it with unwavering intensity and focus. To that end, Deaton lent him a couple of books he deemed suitable for novices. They decided to stay in close contact. Stiles would visit regularly, preferably every fortnight or so. As a cover story Deaton proposed an affliction of the airways that could be cured with patience and medicine but required constant supervision. Should questions between them arise in the meantime (and there was little doubt about it), they would communicate via magical notes. Deaton showed Stiles how to use them. There was little to it if you had the right utensils and good faith.

“Thank you so much,” Stiles said as he was seen off. There was heartfelt emotion behind his words. “I still feel like I’m in a dream and about to wake up any moment!”

“You better believe it not to be a dream,” Deaton replied. “For better or for worse, there is no waking up from this.”  
  
  


*

 

Stiles returned to an empty home, which rendered the note he had left his father a futile effort. After a moment of consideration, he destroyed it. Certainly he would mention his visit to Deaton when _asked_ about it – they would need to talk in any case, soon, about his sudden need to visit Deaton every fortnight! – but for now his father needn’t worry. He had enough on the plate as it was.

It was a terrible shame that Stiles couldn’t share the newest developments with him. He felt as if he was vibrating out of his skin. Magic existed in the world! Deaton was a druid! And he, Stiles Stilinski, was also capable of using magic! One day he might even become a druid himself! He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this _thrilled_ about anything. He felt ready to take on the world and come out victorious.

“What are you so excited about?” John asked as he got home and joined Stiles in the kitchen. “You haven’t even gotten the news yet.”

Stiles silently chastised himself. He _really_ needed to tone his exhilaration down. “News? Indeed not. Which news?”

“It just so happened that I ran into Talia Hale…and while I thanked her for son’s kind-heartedness, she gave me this.” John produced an envelope out of the pocket of his coat. A thick, official-looking, crème-colored envelope that was addressed to them both, with elegant handwriting.

Startled, Stiles took it and opened it. His voice rose with surprise as he read the card to his father. Mrs. Hale requested the honor of Stiles and the John’s presence for the next Sunday lunch!

“Any ideas why we were invited by _Mrs. Hale?_ ” John asked. “And this is addressed more to you than to me, I feel.”

“I don’t know. I’m not omniscient, although I like to pretend otherwise!” Stiles could well imagine why she felt the urge to talk to him, but it was not like that was a reason he could share. He felt some trepidation, some joy and delight; it ought to be an interesting visit at the very least.

His father regarded him with a sly look Stiles didn’t like _at all_. “You know, I _did_ think you got along astonishingly well with young Mr. Hale.”

“Oh god, don’t say it like that. _Please!_ ”

John gave him a lopsided smile. “It wasn’t so long ago, as I recall, that you used to complain about Mr. Hale with an endurance that can only be called limitless.”

Stiles huffed. “So? I’m allowed to change my opinion.”

“And change your opinion you did, did you not?”

“He can carry a conversation well enough and isn’t boorish or malicious. He is tolerable, I suppose.” Stiles rolled his eyes heavenwards. “I appreciate his company on those grounds, but that is _all_ there is to it, father! Nothing more!”

“Son, you’re not fooling anyone and _certainly_ not me.”

“There’s no reason to fool anyone about anything,” Stiles retorted.

“Be that as it may, you don’t have time on Sunday.” His father looked apologetic. “We already have a prior engagement. My new deputy is starting on Monday and invited us to lunch very insistently, as you may recall. We may visit the Hales another time.”

That was not agreeable to Stiles at all. “Father! Certainly you can go there alone!”

John gave him his stern, patented parent look. “I can very well go there on my own, but you will not visit the Hales all by yourself.”

“You _cannot_ be serious,” Stiles exclaimed. “Please! It’s an invitation by _Talia Hale_ , you don’t refuse invitations by Talia Hale! It would be foolish in the extreme.” A sudden idea lit up his features; there might be a way to salvage their scheduling conflict yet. “Let me ask Scott and Kira to accompany me! You haven’t ever met two more upstanding citizens. Flawless reputations. Engaged. Their hearts all in the right place and their manners impeccable!”

John considered this suggestion. “Well…”

Stiles prayed he would consent. That would be for the best. He was interested in meeting the Hales, but at the same time welcomed an opportunity not to interact with them in front of his father, who was hawk-eyed and never missed the slightest detail that might lead to someone’s incrimination.

“It’s true that your friends are upstanding young citizens,” John said with a twinkle in his eyes. “I may well believe they can resist being swayed by your attempts at mischief and mayhem.”

“Exactly. They would! It’s the perfect solution to our dilemma.”

John chuckled. “Fine. You may write a letter and ask them to accompany you.”

Stiles thanked him profusely and did just that with. What he wrote was of a desperately beseeching quality, and yet hardly any embarrassment registered with him. Sometimes one just had to do the necessary, with little regard to one’s own dignity.  
  
  


*

 

To Stiles’ complete and utter delight, Scott and Kira acquiesced to his request with pleasure.

They would join him for his trip to the Hales.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I work a lot these days (extra hours, extra hours…) and it turns out it’s not easy to write a novel-length fic at the same time (WHO KNEW? NOT ME). This is only half of the original eighth chapter and unfortunately not the most exciting part, but I wanted to post something again and keep the story moving.


	9. The First of Many Impressions

  
  
  
Stiles thought about his visit to the Hales a lot in the next days, especially when he went to bed and couldn’t escape the inevitable trajectory of his mind. Dozens of times, he imagined how the visit would play out. He assumed his invitation was related to recent events, particularly the enlightening afternoon spent with Mr. Hale, but could not fathom what to expect from such a meeting with Talia Hale.

During the days, Stiles kept himself busy. He had urgent matters to attend to, namely: throwing himself into the study of magic with single-minded determination. All of his past hopes had come alive at once, and he felt overwhelmingly lucky and exhilarated, but distrustful of his good fortune at the same time, as if he might wake up any moment with it all just being a fabulous dream… even though Deaton had promised (or rather _threatened_ ) that that would not be the case.

The doctor had lent him many books that kept him well occupied. Stiles soon found out that learning magic was like learning a whole new language. There was a structure to the subject, certainly, but one that felt exceedingly alien to him. He longed for the days when he would know magic like the back of his hand, but for now the learning curve was steep indeed. Especially because he was supposed to listen to his own mind; Deaton had called that meditation. The practice was about activating his _spark_ , and elevating its dormant state to a heightened one, so that it would be close to the surface and Stiles could call upon it whenever necessary. Meditation seemed like a curious concept, but Stiles found his restless, agitated mind to grew calmer with the breathing exercises, and he came close to emptying it a couple of times.

Stiles also tried his hand at a few simple spells, especially the ones that Deaton had called _handbourne_ magic, because working them required no utensils or ingredients. He attempted elemental magic first. Most people were attuned to their surroundings in some capacity, and so that type of magic was easier to master than most other types. Some might have an affinity for snow, while others might be able to control the wind or even the tides after a fashion. Stiles even read about Persian mages of old that had used a sophisticated form of elemental magic to create gardens of unimaginable splendor – _paridayda_ they were called, a word translated into other languages as _paradise_ … those texts made even plant magic seem like something worthwhile to strive for. When Stiles remembered the state of his own garden, however, he doubted he’d have any affinity for that particular form.

Initially, Stiles’ headway with elemental magic was pitiful – until he got to fire. After three days of following the instructions in the book, he managed to manipulate fire with nothing but his own free will. He was not capable of extinguishing a flame or coaxing one into existence yet, but once it was there, he managed to dim the flame or raise it to a height great enough to stain the ceiling with soot. (How magnificent was that? Even if it meant he had some explaining to do). Stiles found that he could make flames twirl and twist as if they were dancing to some rhythm, and what a weird feeling that was! Part of him felt like a flame himself in that moment. Bright and fluid, all heated motion and energy... he felt much bigger than himself, and at the same time more insignificant.

It was the first sign of his capabilities, the first promise of a greater future, and surely he could be forgiven for yelling in excitement and dancing on the spot (which made the little flames shudder and tremble).

Spark indeed!

The other thing that Stiles managed to do related to reflecting surfaces. Stiles had discovered a simple spell that made mirrors blind and rendered them completely useless. Stiles had felt moronic mixing the ingredients and burning them, and even stupider muttering a spell and willing something to happen. But when it did – when the mirrors grew blind – Stiles felt only awe and elation. From now on, no holding back. No doubting! He needed to unlearn what he’d learned, as Deaton had said, and quickly at that. 

Speaking of whom: Stiles used the magical writing system with Deaton. It was rather ingenious! When he was stuck on something difficult feat and couldn’t resolve it himself in an appropriate time, he wrote Deaton a brief note detailing his troubles and got an answer back whenever the doctor had time, which appeared to be in the evening, when he answered all of Stiles’ notes with instructions of his own.

So far, so good.

  


*

  
When Sunday dawned, Stiles was in equal parts excited and anxious.

He agonized over his clothing choices in a way he never had before, fretting about the state of his wardrobe and the message he wanted to send. If only he could have relied on Lydia’s expertise! But they had not yet mended the rift between them. For the time being, he was on his own and that meant he had to dress himself like the actual adult he was. Stile picked a handsome suit in a crème color, with a burgundy vest. It was more formal than the attire he usually picked, but he wanted to make a good impression on the Hales - it was not every day that you met a pack of werewolves! Champagne was an omega color, a gentle color, one that complimented his complexion and features, as he’d been told often enough. It would do. It had to.

His reflection in the mirror looked handsome enough, but also quite dubious. Not like a confident young man ready to meet the Hales.

Scott and Kira picked him up in her parent’s carriage – a spacious and elegant vehicle, as comfortable as carriages ever got (which was not _very_ comfortable, admittedly) – and together they drove to the Hales.

His friends were dressed in their Sunday best and sat close together, their thighs and shoulders touching. Their picture was one of intimacy and ease.

“How is engaged life treating you?” Stiles asked.

“Very well,” Scott said and gave Kira an adoring look as he raised her gloved hand to his lips, kissing it. “Much better than I ever dared hope for, and I dared hope for a lot.”

“He’s a terrible charmer!” Kira replied with a giggle. “He has not yet realized, it appears, that he won me over and tries to woo my affections every day anew.”

“What a dreadful brute!” Stiles laughed. “Scott, that is most troubling to hear.”

”Don’t lay the blame solely at my feet! If Kira were less of a ravishing beauty, or had less of kind spirit and mischievous wit, I could certainly be blamed for the strength of my affection. But as it is, who would not see me as anything else but the helpless victim of her charms?” 

”See? He’s doing it again!” Kira said and playfully swatted Scott’s arm.

It seemed the young couple neared a very blissful matrimony. But was all really as well as it appeared? Stiles remembered what Kira had told him at the Fall Festival, and wondered whether those anxieties still plagued her mind. Should he talk to her about it, privately? It was likely that she wanted to forget the confession she’d made to him, but the opposite could also be the case…

Scott and Kira chatted of their busy wedding preparations. It would not be a very large affair, as weddings in these parts usually weren’t, but afterwards they intended visit some relations that would not be able to make it to the wedding, in such faraway places as Albany and Baton Rouge. That alone would be terribly exciting. And afterwards came the greatest adventure of all: building their own house and making it their home.

As so often, Stiles was wistful that Scott had drifted from him in recent years. The easy camaraderie of their childhood and teen years had been replaced with a subtle distance which he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was not that Scott didn’t wish to partake in common activities anymore. It was just… that a lot seemed to go unsaid, and Stiles could for the life of him not determine the reason for that. But he would hardly grow closer to Scott when his friend was busy with family life, would he? Whatever distance there was between them, could only grow.

Maybe Scott was picking up on the mood in the air. When they had exhausted all erstwhile topics of conversation, Scott looked at him earnestly and said, “Whatever happens, we are going to remain friends, right?”

Stiles stared back at him blankly, feeling quite awkward. “Yes! Certainly! I mean, whatever could happen?”

“I don’t know.” Scott shifted in his seat. Kira’s hand found his and squeezed it. “Just a random thought that I had – not related to anything.”

“That doesn’t sound ominous at all.” Stiles was a tad worried now. “We basically grew up as brothers, did we not?”

“We did,” Scott confirmed.

“Then that bond shall not be broken,” Stiles said with confidence he didn’t entirely feel.

“Good, good...” Scott said and still gave him a mournful look. It was most peculiar.

“Are you looking forward to the visit?” Kira asked. “Your letter certainly sounded enthusiastic.”

Oh god, yes. _Enthusiastic_ was one way to describe it. Stiles remembered the urgent tone with which he’d written that letter and felt some belated embarrassment. “Looking forward is perhaps not the most fitting word choice… curious, that would be more it.”

“Aren’t you bothered by Mr. Hale’s presence?” Scott asked.

“Not particularly,” Stiles said. “He is tolerable, after all.”

“Is he? That is unexpected,” Scott allowed. “I seem to recall you judging him a _terribly conceited, self-important, presumptuous, and insolent_ individual.”

“Hmmm,” Stiles said, as if he had to recollect his thoughts. “Did I? Possibly. I don’t really remember. It was so long ago, frankly.”

“Hardly,” Scott said with a grin. “Only a couple of months, no more.”

“Maybe my first impression was not the correct one,” Stiles grumbled. Lord, everyone insisted on giving him _grief_ for that _one_ slight misassumption!

Scott and Kira exchanged a certain look among themselves, which annoyed Stiles to no end. Silent communication between couples was the worst thing in the world.

As the landscape moved past them at a trotting pace, each minute brought them closer to the great forest. Stiles felt his heartbeat pick up speed as the carriage finally neared its destination. It was nerve-wrecking to meet Mr. Hale again, with his entire family in attendance… what if he made a bad impression on the Hales? What if they didn’t like them at all, or he found them distasteful in turn? He was looking forward to meet Mr. Hale again, he could admit that much to himself, at the very least because he longed to tell him what had transpired with Deaton. He was the only person he could tell without breaking that dreadful oath. But beyond that… he had no idea what the day had in store for him.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Scott said, in a tone soothing enough to gentle a spooked horse.

“Of that I have no doubt.” Stiles was irked that his nerves were so plain to see. He was fine. Perfectly dandy! He would enjoy this visit and charm every living creature within a five-mile radius, just wait and see.

When he’d visited Erica and Boyd, Stiles had already caught glimpses of the Hale estate, but this time it was different. It felt more intimidating now that the carriage was aiming straight for Hale Manor. It was as fine a house as any you could find in the best neighborhood of Beacon Hills; built in the Baroque Revival architecture, if Stiles was to be the judge, and subsequently terribly grand and beautiful. It was situated in a large clearing, so the forest didn’t press in too closely, but there was still a sense of protection in those giant evergreens all around them. The smell of fir needles was heavy in the air. Other houses, considerably smaller, were visible in the distance. The last time Stiles had been here, he’d seen the fields and orchards further out, and he knew the Hales also kept livestock. By all appearances, they were a society unto themselves.

The main house was surrounded by a large garden that was plain and barren, now that it was November; a dormant beauty waiting to be resurrected. Stiles wouldn’t mind strolling through it one fine spring day, when the cherry blossoms would fall softer than snow… or during summer, when the roses would be in full bloom and make the garden a spectacle of wild colors. But for now, he had to content himself with the imagination of what it _could_ look like. 

The carriage circled a large fountain (now inoperative) and then they had reached their destination. None other than Mr. Derek Hale was waiting for them at the bottom of the great stairs.

“Now that is what I call an unusually dashing welcome committee,” Kira said with a sly glance at Stiles.

He didn’t reply because his heart – curse the curious thing – was making a leap in chest. He felt vaguely ill. There was no doubt that Mr. Hale cut a dashing figure. The alpha wore a formal suit with a double-breasted waistcoat, black of course, as he always did, and a pressed white shirt with a high collar. He wasn’t clean shaven, and the stubble he favored gave his jawline even more of a definition. He looked the very picture of a model alpha. Perhaps not as warm and gregarious as one would wish for, but Stiles was reasonably sure his stoic expression was less a matter of disposition and temperament and more a matter of custom… if their recent meeting had been anything to go by, Mr. Hale always appeared grumpier than he actually was. 

Point in case: Scott and Kira climbed out of the carriage first and were greeted by their friend affectionately.

Then it was Stiles’ turn. He kept his head low and was mindful of every step, as the last thing he wanted was to hit his head against the roof or fall out of the carriage in a graceless heap of coltish limbs.

“May I?” Mr. Hale said and offered him a hand. His gaze found Stiles’, pale green and assessing, and Stiles felt unsettled under his attention.

“Yes – certainly”, Stiles said and took it Mr. Hale’s hand. Even though his own was gloved, and there was no skin-on-skin contact, the way his hand was engulfed in Hale’s strong grip felt near indecent to him. The alpha was close enough to get a sense for the solidness of his body, for his height and strength, and also allowed to catch a trace of his scent, but not nearly, nearly _enough_ of it. It made Stiles want to lean in, to lean closer still. 

Hale did not immediately release him when Stiles had reached the ground. His gaze flickered to their hands, intertwined as it were… and only then, a heartbeat too late, did he let go. Certainly Stiles could be forgiven for feeling a little _bereft_.

Mr. Hale clutched his arms behind his back and scowled at no one in particular. “Mr. Stilinski,” he said, bowing. “I’m pleased you have found the time to honor us with your presence.”

“I couldn’t imagine a nicer pastime than to visit the countryside on such a fine day,” Stiles said, and was gratified to find his voice as strong as ever. “You have done me a favor.”

“The favor has been _yours_ to grant,” Mr. Hale said decidedly, as if there was no debating the issue. “The pleasure, however, is all _mine_.”

“Mr. Hale, this I cannot allow! It’s most ungenerous of you to keep the pleasure all to yourself, when I wish to partake in it as well.”

A warm expression transformed Mr. Hale’s features. Once again it reminded Stiles of rays of sun, precious and long sought-after. “Perhaps we ought to share it, then.”

This, Stiles could live with. “Very well. I can acquiesce to that, Mr. Hale.”

When he turned to his friends, he found them suspiciously still, as if they had just wiped their faces clean of the expression they had been sporting. He ignored their silent mirth to the best of his abilities, to better guard his own dignity.

Mr. Hale led them into the house. The front doors alone were a wonder to marvel at – carved from Irish hardwood timber, as their host told them upon noticing their regard. The foyer was clearly built to impress as well. Stiles was taken aback by the height of the ceiling, by the columns of marble and polished wood. A large oil painting depicted a landscape of a forest with rolling hills, with fog rising from the valleys.

They were joined by Cora Hale in the foyer. She was a very handsome young alpha, who wore masculine clothing on principle; this time it was a handsome suit. She had the reputation of being a bit of a troublemaker, but had so much charm to spare that her habits and exploits were largely indulged with affection and some eye rolls.

“Miss Yukimura! Mr. McCall! Truly, it has been far too long!” She was forward with Stiles’ friends and hugged them both. Then Ms. Hale turned to Stiles, with warmth as well but a lot more formality. “Mr. Stilinski. It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

Ms. Hale offered to relieve them of their overcoats and went to put them in the coatroom, while her brother led them further inside the house. “We have family lunch today,” he informed them. “Every Sunday, the family meets at my mother’s house. It’s quite an assembly, and often a very lengthy affair. I hope you brought an appetite.”

“Absolutely,” Scott said. “You know I could always eat.”

“Oh, I know,” Mr. Hale said wryly, clearly alluding to some backstory (which made Stiles _wonder_ ).

Mr. Hale led them into a large parlor with wine-red tapestry and what felt like dozens of different tables and sitting groups. The big fireplace had already been lit, and the logs crackled and snapped. The warm glow of the fire gave the room a cozy air. Even though Stiles had tried to prepare himself mentally, he was astonished by the sheer number of Hales, who were mingling with each other and presumably waiting to be called to the table. The family resemblance between many of them was unmistakable; their relation was visible in the strong jawlines and the dark hair. And to think that they were all werewolves, imagine that! Well, Stiles _assumed_ there were all of a lycanthropic inclination. He didn’t know for sure.

As they entered, a couple of the conversations ebbed off. Talia Hale strode over, as stately and dignified as always, to welcome them kindly. She was an alpha and the matriarch of the family, which by extension presumably meant she was also the pack leader. “I’m glad you could all make it.”

”As am I. Thank you for the invitation.” Stiles bowed to her, deeper than usual, and watched in amazement as Mrs. Hale mirrored the gesture. She greeted Scott and Kira by pressing her hand against their necks’, briefly but firmly.

How…peculiar.

”Derek, would be so kind as to introduce Mr. Stilinski?”

Mr. Hale nodded, and then made it his mission to introduce Stiles to everyone in attendance; Scott and Kira, who were already familiar with everyone present, made their own round. Stiles quickly realized that it would be a challenge to memorize the names of all family members.

Of course he knew Talia Hale’s husband, to whom Mr. Hale bore a striking resemblance and who seemed as quiet and reserved as his son. With his broad hands and thick beard, he looked like a man more at ease chopping wood rather than wearing a suit. While they were talking to him, a ginger omega girl came up to him and told him just how good she had gotten at archery – she had hit the mark in the cherry tree all the way from the fountain! He ruffled her hair affectionately and told her she had made him proud. The off-hand remarks left Stiles reeling. Was he honestly to believe that the Hales were training an omega girl in _archery_? How could one even imagine such a thing! How outlandish!

There was no time for a clarification, however, for Stiles was next introduced to Laura Hale. He was already a little acquainted with her, since he had courted Lydia for a considerable length of time. Their contact had withered and died after the courtship had been called off, and yet Stiles found the encounter not as awkward as he had imagined. It was obvious that Laura Hale was enamored with her omega wife Ruth; they had two children and a third was on the way.

Talia Hale’s siblings – Eunice Hale and Peter Hale – also lived with the family, as did the siblings of her husband. In the distance, Stiles spotted Erica and Boyd, but as he was still busy being introduced to aunts and uncles, wives and husbands, as well as a never-ending parade of cousins, he could not make his way over to them, more was the pity.

There were also many children present. One girl in particular seemed fixated on Stiles. “Are you the man Uncle is always talking about?”

Stiles was stumped. “Well – I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“You’re not!” Hale hurried to say. “I don’t talk a lot about you – no more than about my other acquaintances! I only mentioned you in passing, Mr. Stilinski. Very fleetingly.”

“Is that so? Perhaps the gentleman doth protest too much.” Stiles was delighted to find Mr. Hale becoming even more flustered, the alpha’s mouth opening and closing uselessly as he sought for a response. How _fun_ teasing could be. “So what does your uncle have to say about me?” Stiles asked the girl in a conspiring tone. “You can confide in me.”

The girl giggled. “One time, he said you were very… _vexing!_ ” She appeared shocked by her own audacity.

“He did that, did he?” Stiles chuckled, and was not the only one afflicted by mirth. A couple of the other Hales around them were also enjoying the conversation. “I fear I can’t contest that judgment. That does sound like me.”

“Once he said that you’re _insufferable!_ ”

“Augusta, that’s quite enough!” Mr. Hale scolded her. “When the pie is talking, the crumbs ought to be silent.”

She looked at her uncle with big eyes, her lip wobbling. Stiles wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t wielding that stone-melting expression as a weapon, which he would have to commend her for.

“ _Insufferable_ , Mr. Hale?” Stiles pretended to be affronted. “My, my, this visit is certainly illuminating.”

“That was a while ago,” Mr. Hale clarified instantly. “A _long_ while ago.”

“So you’re not disputing it!” Stiles said, laughing. In a way he felt proud for having gotten under Mr. Hale’s skin so successfully.

“We got off to a difficult start, at the beginning of our acquaintance,” Mr. Hale reminded him.

“Well… that is true,” Stiles said, and his high spirits suffered a little. He did not like to remember his early verbal transgressions against Mr. Hale. “I couldn’t have judged you more inaccurately than I first did. That is still my regret.”

Mr. Hale’s look, which was warm and intimate, helped to ease Stiles’ feelings of contrition. “None of that matters anymore, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles smiled at the alpha, only too ready to return the sentiment of and forgiveness. He felt a flutter of hope that he was on the brink of something extraordinary, something to be cherished, and might have found another confidante in Mr. Hale… in the unlikeliest of places, if he thought about it.

Augusta wasn’t done yet with interrupting them, however. She was a _menace_. “Aunt Cora says Uncle Derek is _pining!_ ” she piped up. “Because sometimes he smiles a lot, and other times he is grumpy, and he often wants to talk about you. I think that pining is stupid. Aunt Laura says pining is a bother and isn’t fun at all, and that I should avoid it if I can.”

Stiles had half forgotten her presence, but there was no ignoring her now.

“Did you know that?” the girl asked, curiosity personified. 

He was spared a response when Peter Hale came to collect his daughter, lifting her up on his hips and kissing her forehead. “From the mouth of babes!” he said and winked at Stiles.

This visit was proving to be a strain on his poor nerves, _good Lord_. He so longed for alcohol, and strong one at that. Just as Stiles pondered how much truth there was to what Augusta had said – a furtive glance at Mr. Hale could not confirm or deny either way, although the alpha seemed discomfited in the extreme and avoided his gaze entirely – another person sought his attention. It was Philip Hale, youngest of Mr. Hale siblings and the only omega. He was hardly ever seen about town, and thus Stiles knew precious little about him except the obvious. With his hazelnut curls and moss-green eyes, he would be a favorite among the unwed omegas of Beacon Hill’s polite society if he chose to pursue their approval. It was almost annoying how blessed the Hales proved to be in the physical department! Perhaps that was a side effect of their werewolf nature, another card well-dealt by Fortuna.

“Augusta is always chattering about one thing or another,” Philip said. “Don’t mind her, she tends to have an overly active imagination. May I be so bold as to call you Stiles?” 

“Yes, certainly – you may.” No other answer could be given in good conscience, as easy familiarity among omegas was expected, and yet Stiles wished he could have insisted on the more formal address. Especially when Philip linked arms with him and whisked him away from the other groups, engaging him in a conversation as pleasant as mild spring weather. Stiles listened carefully, still; he was looking for treacherous ground where an ill-step might prove fatal.

“What are you fond of doing in your leisure time?” Philip asked.

“All manner of things. I enjoy a good outing with friends, and I’m particularly fond of reading and educating myself on various subjects.”

“Any good recommendations?”

Philip Hale was easy to talk to, albeit he was keener on angling for information than revealing some of his own. He remained a mystery for Stiles. It was quite inconceivable, that an omega like him – born into a wealthy, illustrious family, well-connected to a fault – was hidden away from society’s various entertainments. He was of the same age as Stiles, and that was a _marriageable_ age; one where one ought to find an appropriate mate. Not that Stiles could be that judge in this case, and certainly he’d make a hypocritical prosecutor as well. But even he attended the society events he was invited to… and Philip Hale most decidedly did not. Did he think himself too fine for the company of Beacon Hill’s residents?

From across the room, Stiles caught Mr. Hale’s gaze. The alpha was engaged in a conversation with one of his cousins, but excused himself when he became aware of Stiles’ attention and made his way over to him. If Stiles was interpreting his more-frownier-than usual expression correctly, he did not feel pleased at the present moment.

That mattered but little to Philip, who kept on talking as his older brother joined them.

“You’re not planning on _monopolizing_ Mr. Stilinski all for yourself, are you?” Mr. Hale asked him.

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of it,” Philip replied loftily. He produced a fan out of the pocket of his waistcoat, let it fall open with one graceful movement, and fanned air in the direction of his face. “I just wanted to properly welcome your new _friend_.”

 _Friend?_ There was an undercurrent to the word that Stiles wasn’t certain he liked.

“That is very kind of you,” Mr. Hale said in a tone that proclaimed the gesture to be anything but.

“Well, I am a very kind person!” Philip replied. “Everyone says so. Stiles, it’s been a pleasure. We must get together soon!”

“Certainly,” Stiles agreed.

“And now I’ll leave you in the company of my dear brother, who, I am sure, will provide you with sparkling conversation and witty repartees.” He nodded at them and joined another group, completely unfazed at the way his older brother scowled after him him. 

Stiles felt relieved and wished he could loosen his own collar. God, he needed to _breathe_. It oughtn’t be a difficult task, but right now he felt a little ill at ease. At least he and Mr. Hale made their way over to the group of their mutual friends. It was the first time Stiles met Boyd and Erica since he truly knew _what_ they were, and the look on their faces betrayed their awareness of that fact.

“Stiles,” Boyd said – and oh, was there caution in his gaze, unmistakably. “How nice to see you again so soon. It’s not often you visit these parts.”

“Can you blame him? He probably missed us,” Erica said.

“You hit the mark right in the center!” Stiles said and laughed. He didn’t want to discuss the lycanthropic matter at length, and yet he felt obligated to mention the not-so proverbial werewolf in the room at least once. “I must say some things now make a good deal more sense than they used to.”

“Oh?” Boyd uttered.

“Your proclivity for hunting, for one. I remember neither of you were such good marksmen in our school days.”

That raised a chuckle and eased the tension in the air.

“Guilty as charged,” Erica said. “But you’ll be gratified to know we have improved since! Albeit not with bows or muskets, mind you. We prefer a more… direct way of hunting.”

“I thought as much,” Stiles replied.

It was quite pleasant to catch up with friends, but of course the peace could not last forever.

An elderly lady made her way over to them, fast and determinedly, even though she was relying on a cane and her steps were shuffling. If the way Mr. Hale stiffened beside him was any indication, trouble awaited them. Mr. Hale looked positively _cowed_ , and Stiles’ friends actually had the nerves of inching away from them, the faithless lot!

The lady looked at Stiles intently. “Now, now. Who do we have here?”

“Grandmother, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Hale said. “I wanted to introduce you to him earlier, but it appears you were taking a nap. Mr. Stilinski, this is my grandmother, Millicent Hale.”

“I know who he is,” she said. “Now, let me get a good look at the boy.”

She was an omega as well, Stiles noted. Streaks of silver ran through her dark grey hair, and she had that sort of face that instantly commanded attention and respect. He bowed to her respectfully, but she ignored him for the sake of scrutinizing his appearance and taking a whiff of the air around him. Stiles felt more bashful than he could remember ever having felt before. In another person, her audacity would have been outrageous, but there were certain benefits to advanced age and the fact that she’d probably given birth to a third of the people in the room, and could not be lectured by them.

“What a handsome young man,” she finally concluded. “Derek, do you not agree? Such fine eyes, such delicate features. In my youth, I knew a beta girl with just as many beauty marks; Shira she was called. I always found them striking and couldn’t look away when she wore her beautiful sundress… one evening, she showed them to me – oh, every last one of them. She _had_ indeed noticed my high regard!”

She chuckled fondly, while Mr. Hale looked nothing short of exasperated. “Grandmother!”

“Don’t you dare _grandmother_ me, Derek Alexander. And don’t think I forgot I asked you a question! My hearing may have gotten bad, but yours ought to be stellar. Mr. Stilinski is quite handsome, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mr. Hale looked distressed. “Yes, grandmother,” he said through clenched teeth. Given his tone, the words might as well have been drawn from him through torture.

Stiles didn’t know whether to resolve into a fit of laughter or tremble in intimidation lest Mr. Hale’s grandmother redirect her attention his way. As it turned out, the second approach would have been the appropriate, for she proceeded to look at his midsection and then stated, “You’ve got good birthing hips. Not too slim! Healthy. Stout. Very good birthing hips indeed – I can always tell.”

Stiles laughed nervously. “I’ll… I’ll take your word for it.” It wasn’t every day that his fertility was assessed in such a brazen manner, and given his status as an omega that was indeed saying something! And had she honestly just called his hips _stout?_ They were perfectly average, thank you _very_ much.

“You will make someone a fine husband one day,” Mrs. Hale said. “Not a meek one, either, from what I hear about your disposition! Most humans prefer their omegas obedient… what a waste, I say! Omegas need to have fire in their bones, and be ready to breathe it, too.”

”Um.” Stiles was rescued by Mr. Hale, and what a fortunate occurrence that was, for he wouldn’t have known what to reply anyway. 

“ _Thank you_ , grandmother, for imparting your opinion so generously,” Mr. Hale said in the driest tone possible. He successfully extricated them from his grandmother’s presence under the guise of introducing Stiles to yet another relation of his.

Going by the sparkle in her eyes, Millicent Hale wasn’t fooled by the little maneuver at all, but she did let them retreat all the same.

It was not long before they were called to the dining room, anyway. Oh, and what a dining room that was! It was a good deal more spacious than the ones Stiles was used to, even in such illustrious houses as those of the Martins or Whittemores. With the long row of windows, and patterned curtains the color of dawn the room felt light and airy. The large chandeliers lent a grandness to it and yet did not take away from the coziness of it; clearly, it was the main gathering place of the Hale family.

Stiles had never seen a table that large, and all decked out in the finest dinnerware no less! Branches of amur maple served to decorate it with bright splashes of crimson. There were name cards, on each plate, and Stiles found himself seated next to Mr. Hale and his sister Cora. Scott and Kira were seated apart from each other, as was customary; couples did not usually sit together, so they could converse with people other than those they usually conversed with. The children sat separately from them, at a smaller table to the side, which Peter Hale’s wife presided over.

Talia Hale’s sister Eunice and her friend Violet brought out steaming plates of food that were croaking under the weight of their burden. They were assisted by some of the younger family members.

Stiles eyed the food longingly. It looked perfectly lovely.

“In the summer, we often eat outside,” Mr. Hale told him. “Under the canopy of the great oak trees in the field beyond the house.”

“That must be pleasant. Perhaps I shall propose something similar to my father as well, next year.”

Mr. Hale seemed on the verge of saying something, hesitation writ large on his face, but refrained.

His mother seated herself on the head of the table, at which point all murmured conversations ceased in respectful quietness. She smiled at them. “Dear guests, dear family, dear _pack_ : it is with great pleasure that I eat with you today. May our food be as blessed as our cherished time together.”

And with that, finally, the family dug in.

Given the choices offered to him, Stiles found his appetite to be roaring. There were tartlets filled with herbs, cheese and grilled vegetables; coleslaw with smoked duck and a dressing in which French mustard heavily featured; salad with glazed chestnuts, which was best enjoyed with a slice of the freshly baked bread; salmon with a cheese crust; a butternut squash and caramelized onion galette; and veal with mushrooms, carrots, and a creamy-thick sauce with delicious red wine notes.

Stiles made sure to praise the cooks adequately and ate with delight. His appetite was even superseded by that of the Hale’s. Perhaps their werewolf physiology was the reason for that; most of them ate as if there was a limitless hole at the bottom of their stomach.

Lunch conversations were light and pleasing, and didn’t offer many rocky passages for Stiles to navigate (the most critical being asked whether he was currently being courted or not; Philip asked that question as if there was nothing to it and made Stiles choke on a forkful of coleslaw). The Hales were a tight-knit family, it appeared, and Stiles felt right at home in their midst. Especially so because they were fond of teasing each other and didn’t insist on the more formal way of addressing each other that some other families preferred. That wasn’t to say that there was no sense of hierarchy or authority, however. When the subject of the murder case was raised, and a couple of Hales inquired after the progress Stiles’ father had made, Talia Hale interjected herself into the conversation and told them it was not appropriate discussing matter for lunch, with the clear implication being, _you were raised better than that, so behave accordingly!_ Talia Hale’s words were law and so the murder of Burnet Schroeder was not spoken of again. 

Throughout lunch, Stiles felt Peter Hale’s gaze on him now and then. This made him slightly uncomfortable, admittedly; he did not like the air about the man. Peter Hale seemed a shrewd and calculating alpha. Stiles wondered which function he served in his sister’s pack, and whether _all_ around him were indeed werewolves, for that matter. There was so much he still didn’t know.

After the main course came the spectacular dessert, and when that had been fully enjoyed, the little assembly gradually dissolved. Some of the children could not contain themselves any longer and went outside to play, while the adults enjoyed a variety of entertainments. Mr. Hale’s grandmother sat down with Mr. Hale’s father and played chess. Other Hales took up knitting or stitching, and a little group of musicians could be a heard a few rooms over. One of them played the harp, and the clear, pearly notes were so sweet and wistful that Stiles felt them tug at his heartstrings.

It was then, however, that Talia Hale approached him and asked him whether he would be so gracious as to accompany her for an after-dinner tea. Mr. Hale, who had yet seen fit to leave him all by himself, looked concerned but did not intervene.

Well. It was not like Stiles could decline in good conscience, could he? And so – knowing little of what fate awaited him – he went with Talia Hale.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is always welcome. Comments are greatly appreciated.
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